


Solace in Violence

by VerticalDrive



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: All Quiet on the Brightmoon Front, And they were barracks-mates, By the old gods they were barracks-mates, Enemies to Enemies to Enemies, Even in a lighthearted fantasy someone is going to get hurt, F/F, It ain't easy out there for our vengeful war orphans, It is the only cure for Post-Traumatic High Fantasy Disorder (PTHFD), No lasting harm will come to your beloved favorite characters, Open that bottle of wine, So it looks like DRINKS ARE ON ME, The Rebellion has no issue with using child soldiers it seems, The unknown characters you come to know will be very acquainted with harm however, We will need it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerticalDrive/pseuds/VerticalDrive
Summary: The heroines go on their adventures, prophecy and magic lighting their way. Adora and Catra are finally reunited and love saves the world and it's lesbian cottagecore ever after. You know.But you? Nah, get real. You're the nameless soldier left to die on the front lines, the nameless guard left to defend an empty castle. There will be no songs or stories for you. Your grave will lie shallow and unmarked. Your name isn't even in the credits!(This is not a story of great ideas or great events. This is the story of those trapped within them and left behind. Watch them live and fight and try to make sense of the momentous changes taking place around them--and try to survive when those momentous changes are right beneath their feet. Good luck, you'll need it!)AKA the 'She-Ra canon from the perspective of ordinary Etherians' story you didn't really need.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 81





	1. Death, the Sibling

**RIGHT NOW, AS SHE DIES**

Kurgan coughs up more and more blood. The bright red froth gathers at the corner her mouth, and she wipes it away with a trembling fist. She won't die without some dignity.

"It… had… to be _you,_ " she rattles out wetly. She laughs, mouth wide, teeth red. It sounds like a woman drowning in blood, because it is.

  


* * *

  


**BEFORE THAT, AS SHE LIVES**

You don't need a history book or a lecture hall to know the First Princess Alliance crashed and burned. You already know the story, one translation or another. All of Etheria is still piecing through that smoldering wreckage, years and years later, still burning their hands on what shards they uncover. 

But let's scale it down a bit. It's easier to follow one person.

The exact details of how Kurgan found her home in the Bright Moon castle barracks rather than an orphanage? Those details are either lost to time or buried deep (very deep) in the library archives; and if the librarian doesn't want you to know (she doesn't), those may as well be the very same thing.

Maybe it was that there were simply too many orphans at the time, or maybe Juliet correctly observed that their current generation of castle guards had been demolished and a mascot would help with morale. Or maybe it was when Micah looked down into those small brown eyes—eyes radiant and brilliant with the hate and anger that only a child could produce—and took pity.

(Maybe it was guilt or shame on Angella's part; she was a better queen of the people than commander. No one says anything about that.)

Regardless of the when and how and why, Kurgan planted her soul-black flag at Bright Moon and swore fealty to King Micah and Queen Angella. The attendant court would laugh behind their soft hands, but Micah was solemn as the five-year-old knelt on a wobbly, scabbed knee and spat out the words of the oath flawlessly with a deathly seriousness.

  


* * *

  


Before you ask: no, no one knows where the name ‘Kurgan’ came from.

  


* * *

  


It soon becomes clear that Kurgan is not satisfied with being a mascot. It has nothing to do with that Kurgan does not know what a 'mascot' is.

She refused to be a serving girl, and would only be a courier if she was heading in that direction anyway. She would visit the kitchens to snag a bite to eat, never to cook. She would not clean, and would attend to the seamstresses only to swipe enough thread to mend her own clothing.

Kurgan lived for the barracks. She lived for battle. Or, at least, what she thought a battle _was._ Battles... were loud and dangerous and bloody and fiery and people died and that's where orphans were made, she knows that much. The rest, to her, is trivial.

She would ferry training weapons back and forth, in summer heat or winter snow. She would set up training mannequins (designing them with uncanny accuracy to the image of a certain Horde overlord) again and again without complaint. Whenever someone was wounded she would be there with cloth and bandage and salve. When the guards crop their hair short to regulation with razors, she follows suit (the itchy nicks on her scalp she wears proudly).

Angella is disgusted to see it. A child Kurgan’s age should be learning to count and read and be playing with children her age, not acting as a wartime squire. But Juliet assures the Queen; Kurgan can count very well. Six feathers to an arrow’s fletching, twenty four arrows to a sheaf, forty-two soldiers to a platoon. Kurgan can read, for she reads combat manuals and the histories of war to completion, and complains when whichever guard reading her bedtime story says it is time for lights out.

None of this soothes Angella. She has half a mind to place Kurgan with a noble family, but the Queen is not blind; she sees the bonds the girl has formed here. When Glimmer is learning to walk, Angella is given pause to see Kurgan, in her worn raiment, holding Glimmer's hand and helping her totter along in the nursery. Kurgan looks up, sees that she is seen, and looks quickly back and forth from Angella to Glimmer. There is fear in Kurgan's eyes, yes, but also defiance. Angella smiles benignly down at her; Kurgan simply nods and continues Glimmer's walking lessons.

  


* * *

  


When Kurgan is ten years old and Micah is gone, Angella asks Kurgan to join her for tea.

Kurgan looks around, as if Angella may have been addressing someone else, but there is only plush carpet and tapestry and stained-glass window and chandeliers and… herself. Kurgan never has tea with Angella... and, really, Angella was never a tea person. This is weird.

They sit in Micah's study and drink tea in silence. It’s not good… but it’s not bad, either. It's a different kind of tea than what they have in the barracks; more delicate. Meant to be savored rather than quaffed before a patrol or training session. It’s different. An ‘acquired taste,’ as the older (as in, barely twenty-something) guards refer to the appreciation of wine.

"Tell me, Kurgan... have you ever wondered about your birth parents? Who they were—where you came from?" 

She always wondered, of course. How could she not? What orphan wouldn’t? It was no matter if she were taken in by a magical royal family or a den of honorless thieves; she would always wonder, always feel at the corners of her memory.

Kurgan stares down into her cup. "They don't matter."

Angella leans forward, looking at her intently, brows closer together. "Who told you such an awful thing?"

"It... makes sense. They haven't looked for me. And I won't look for them." Kurgan raises her face to meet the Queen’s gaze. Angella’s expression—protective, yes, but indignant for _Kurgan’s sake_ makes the next words come earnestly: "You're my family." She says that final word as if it were a foreign language.

Later that night, in the privacy of her chambers, Angella weeps.

  


* * *

  


General Juliet does not play favorites. Kurgan isn't sure if Juliet even has a favorite color, or favorite food, or favorite card game (does she even play?). Explains why she’s single, really. But Kurgan appreciates it, because while it means Juliet's a hardass for the rules, it also means that Juliet will always tell you the truth.

This impartiality means that it isn't until Kurgan hits age thirteen that she can formally become a squire of the guard, despite her storied history with the barracks. Were it not self-explanatory, one must be sixteen to be recruited into the guardship proper. But at thirteen, one can become a squire; an assistant to the guards, if one follows the letter of the law. They are denied weapons and armor and have no obligation to fight. (You can imagine that Kurgan will not play by these rules.)

Kurgan salutes with perfect form when Juliet places the silver pin upon her tunic. Kurgan is proud of very few things, but damn is she proud of that pin.

  


* * *

  


“I know you can do it,” Kurgan says, holding her shoulders. It’s more for herself, really. She feels a sheen of sweat gathering upon her forehead.

Glimmer smirks. “Watch this.”

And for a singular moment, Kurgan ceases to exist. She’s just… gone. Never was, never will be. The end.

Less than a moment later she snaps into existence once more—abruptly—only on the other side of the garden, tumbling to the ground.

“Whoa,” Kurgan says weakly, blinking and moving her limbs to make sure they all came with her. She thinks dimly that this is what being born feels like.

Glimmer dusts some magic sparkles off her hands nonchalantly. “That’s nothing—I can go _twice_ as far without trying. Pretty cool, right?” She preens, awaiting the compliment.

“Yeah,” Kurgan whispers, sweating.

She vomits in a rose bush, fingers clawed in the grass, nails gouging the soil, and vomits again until bile drips from her chin and her intestines have nothing to give but air. Princess Glimmer, age ten, groans and puts a hand to her face. "Ugh. Gross."

  


* * *

  


Kurgan and Glimmer drift apart with time. It can happen with any two people, really.

It is not so much a question of age. Glimmer dines with her royal family, with nobles, with dignitaries. Glimmer goes to balls held in the honor of this-or-that person or that-or-other cause. Glimmer sits in at councils and negotiations, listens to the adults speak in the war room. Glimmer has a private chamber the size of the barracks armory. Glimmer can wake up whenever she wants and go to sleep whenever she wants and eat whenever she wants and go wherever she wants. Glimmer has _magic._

Kurgan does nothing like that. Kurgan has nothing like that.

She thought of Glimmer as a younger sister, at first. Then as a younger cousin. Then as a sort-of-kind-of friend. Then time made it clearer that Glimmer and Kurgan were nothing, really. Kurgan had simply mistaken their relationship as something beyond uncommon princess and common vassal; after all, what did Kurgan know of family? Nothing. Before you ask: the answer to that is _nothing._

Glimmer still smiles at Kurgan in the corridors and the courtyard, of course. But it is not that honest and open smile, of shared secrets; it is that benign, sovereign smile of her mother. It is not the smile she gives Bow.

Bow (princess-consort Bow?) smiles at Kurgan when they pass each other. Kurgan simply nods.

  


* * *

  


When Kurgan is seventeen, two new recruits join the Bright Moon guard.

Veili is tall and lithe and graceful and has dark eyes full of feeling. Even self-conscious and staring down at her bare feet, she is poised. Kurgan would see her more as an acrobat and troubadour than a soldier, but she's not about to become a career advisor in addition to a trainer. Her eyes are drawn to the short horns at the crown of Veili's head; not fully human, not fully of Thaymor. Perhaps this is a case of a young woman venturing off to ‘find herself’ or whatever, Kurgan muses. 

Moske is human, tall and dark and broad and hairy and strong and golden-eyed and smiles too easily and laughs too loudly. He was at hammer and anvil in a village forge, before now—before the Horde laid waste to his home and family and everything he knew (familiar story, isn’t it?). His shaggy beard (gold as his eyes), even at seventeen, exceeds uniform regulation. When Kurgan walks into the barracks to brief the two, Moske grins, for some reason, and wants to shake her hand. Kurgan humors him, for some reason. His hands are callused, but not callused enough. This will be fixed.

They are both taller than Kurgan. She does not like that, but stows those thoughts for another night of wine and brooding. More concerning is that their eyes are still shining with the wonder of seeing the castle this close up rather than as a miraculous beacon upon the horizon. They won’t make it a year if they can’t shake the mystique of the architecture and romanticize their work.

"Let’s get this down. When you swear fealty to the Queen and enact your oath of service, you are _dead,_ " Kurgan declares without preamble, hands clasped smartly behind her back.

Veili and Moske glance at each other.

"Your life—past, present, and future—belong to her, the kingdom, and its people.” Kurgan leans forward, just enough. “You get me?"

"You got it, Sarge," Moske says with a snappy salute. Veili's eyes are wide.

And just like that, Juliet places the two of them under Kurgan's tutelage. What could go wrong?

  


* * *

  


Everything goes wrong because Kurgan is not a good teacher.

Veili and Moske learn, of course; they are good students and they have a fine example to follow. They learn a lot in a short amount of time: standup hand-to-hand fighting, grappling, the sword, the spear, the halberd, the axe, the bow, the crossbow, equestrianism, how to operate the defensive counter-siege engines emplaced upon the castle walls. The problem is that Kurgan never tells them how well they're doing. If they make a mistake, Kurgan points it out, sure. But if they perform perfectly, Kurgan is silent, perhaps granting them a nod. The distinction between ‘passable’ and ‘outstanding’ is impossible to figure out, with her.

Whether they do poorly or do well, they run laps of the Bright Moon inner courtyard. Many, many laps, sun or rain. Kurgan runs with them—In full armor, no less—but it still feels like punishment, somehow.

After weeks and weeks of this Juliet pulls Kurgan aside. "Do you know the difference between positive and negative conditioning?" she asks, not unkindly, but firmly.

"No," Kurgan says. "Otherwise you wouldn't be telling me about it, right?" Juliet's mouth forms a thin line.

The next time Veili's sword removes a mannequin's head from its shoulders, Kurgan calls out, "Your form was lovely, Veili. Beautiful execution of the diagonal cut, really. I'm quite fond of it."

It startles Veili so much she drops her training sword. "Uh—I—um—thank you, sir. Sergeant, sir!" She's blushing and fumbling for her sword at the same time and quite frankly looks ridiculous. Kurgan hopes no one else saw.

Kurgan waves dismissively. "Kurgan. Just don’t let Juliet hear you."

From that point onward Moske and Veili excel. Kurgan is careful to crush any feeling of envy when she sees them learning faster than she did during her foundational training.

  


* * *

  


As the saying goes, the best teacher knows that they are always still a student.

When Kurgan's practice sword goes spinning out of her hands and lands stabbed in the grass, all she can utter is "What the fuck?" and look down at her empty gauntlets. She'd be dead. That's it. She lost.

Even Veili seems shocked, looking down at her training weapons—one-handed axe and an offhand dagger, both painstakingly carved from dense hardwood of Plumeria. "I didn't think that would work," she whispers to herself with the barest daring hint of pride.

"Show me," Kurgan says urgently. "Show me how you did that. C’mon."

Veili's mouth is open slightly. Then, it becomes a sly smile. "Well… how many laps are you willing to do for it?"

Kurgan has already taken off running before Veili can chase after her, crying out that it was a joke. Moske wisely uses their antics for a water break.

  


* * *

  


They don’t say anything for a while. Kurgan stares at the far wall, playing with a buckle on her gauntlet. Moske alternates between glancing at Kurgan, the door, the far wall, the window—and ponders if he should just leap out the window to spare himself the incoming torture. And then:

"That,” Kurgan grits out, “was fucking dumb."

"Yeah."

"You could have seriously gotten hurt."

"I know."

"This will set your training back."

"Hey Sarge, how about some of that ‘positive conditioning’ the General told you about?"

Kurgan glares at Moske, who's grinning up tiredly at her from his bed in the castle infirmary. Most cuts and scrapes the guard will deal with in-house. But this…

"You want positive? Fine. I've never seen anyone lift that rock in the training yard before. It's one of the biggest rocks around. When they built the castle, I'm sure they just left it there since it was so heavy."

"Why thank you, Sarge, how kind of you to say."

"I've also never seen anyone break their arm dropping it on themselves, like a complete and arrogant dumbass, and embarrass themselves in front of the entire guard and court. All the girls were laughing—at you, not with you." Moske had the uncanny tendency to _laugh_ when he was hurt. Kurgan had to quickly identify just how desperate and pained the laugh was, over the years ("Is this a stubbed toe laugh or accidentally-punctured-lung laugh?").

Moske sighs. "Farewell, sweet praise. It was good while it lasted."

Watching the jagged white of Moske's radius (ulna?) stabbing out of his forearm, marrow dark and contrasted, made Kurgan feel something she had never felt before (it made Veili feel quite sick, based on how she paled and clapped her hands to her mouth). It wasn't anger (which she was familiar with). Later, as she thinks on it, the feeling reminds her of the expression on Angella's face when Glimmer fell during her first tentative steps.

Kurgan isn't sure what to make of that.

  


* * *

  


When she is twenty years old, Kurgan receives a summons to General Juliet's office. This means ‘be on time,’ which means ‘be exactly one minute early.’ The one revenge Kurgan has against Juliet is to be _two_ minutes early, expression cool and aloof.

Well, if she notices, she doesn’t show it, because Juliet wastes no words. "You have what it takes," she states plainly, jabbing a finger at a piece of unsigned parchment on her desk, "for promotion into the royal guard."

Ah, the royal guard. Yes, the royal guard! The resplendent uniform, the elaborate glaive of exotic alloy, the distinguished helmet, the black lipstick and eyeshadow and nail lacquer. And, most of all; the easiest job in Castle Bright Moon. Simply stand in the throne room or stand near the royal chambers. Walk where Angella walks, and when she flies, well, make an educated guess where she will deign to land.

Kurgan turns down the offer.

"Are you sure?" Juliet presses.

Kurgan wants to be sure. Kurgan _isn't_ sure. She wants more time around Angella, of course. And maybe she would see more of Glimmer (then again, Glimmer is at the age where she wants nothing to do with her mother—Kurgan never went through that lamentable stage of adolescent development), too. But as part of the castle guard, she feels more... useful. Beating back whatever comes out of the Whispering Woods, throwing would-be thieves off of balconies into the moat... that's her life.

Juliet accepts her declination of the offer without ceremony.

Later, in the yard during drills, Veili shoots Kurgan a sincere look. "I'm glad you didn't take the rank-up," she says, toweling the sweat from her arms. "We would have missed you."

“Seriously,” Moske says after dumping a bucket of water over his head and shaking himself like a dog (the other two hold their hands out defensively, to no avail). “That would’ve spelled the end of Team Forlorn Hope.”

"I hate that name." Kurgan grabs the towel and wipes the sweat from her face—Veili looks scandalized, but says nothing. "All the action is down here, not up there." She shrugs. "And you two are down here."

Moske and Veili both smile at her.

“Time for laps,” Kurgan says, looking away quickly.

  


* * *

  


The first time she sees Adora, Kurgan is twenty two years old.

Unrelated: Kurgan almost decapitates her.

It's reflex, nothing more. Kurgan sees the crimson jacket, the crimson boots—and her sword is halfway from the sheath, her body lunging forward. But then her brain notes Glimmer and Bow, and Adora's unarmed and unarmored state, and suddenly reality slams Kurgan back into her body.

The trio turns around at the noise; Adora leaps into the air like a cat and assumes a combat stance. What they see: one Kurgan, standing there awkwardly in the middle of the corridor. Were they more observant, they would notice the last hair of her blade sliding home into its sheath.

"... Hello," Kurgan mumbles, looking at their boots.

"Hey, Kurg!" Bow gives an enthusiastic little wave. Kurgan represses a wince; only Bow can call her that. She hopes it doesn't catch on.

"All is well?" Kurgan asks. Smoothly, she thinks. (She hopes.) Adora is glancing from her new friends to Kurgan rapidly—almost comically so, her ponytail whipping as if alive.

"Uh... yeah. We were just giving Adora the grand tour now that She-Ra is on our side," Glimmer says, squinting at Kurgan's gauntlet gently moving away from the pommel of her sword. Kurgan schools her features; those lavender eyes are too keen at reading her. "You... need something, Kurgan?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Kurgan lies. "But you've obviously got it handled." She pivots on her heel and marches off in the other direction, giving a wave over the shoulder as she does. "Welcome to Bright Moon, Adora. Hail to the sword, and all that."

  


* * *

  


"Keep an eye on her, Moske."

Moske grunts as he finishes lacing his right boot. He always goes left-to-right, despite being right-handed, which makes no sense to Kurgan. "I think everyone's got an eye on her, Sarge."

"No," Kurgan says. "Everyone's watching She-Ra. They don't watch Adora. There's a difference."

"Sure is. You know how rare it is to run into a girl my size? Then, suddenly—" He waves his hands in an upward motion. "Boom! Magic! There she is!" He chuckles, rising to secure the buckles of his cuirass. "Angella's kind of different, being the queen and all. But I forget, you know? I get so used to looking down at people—literally, mind you—that when I look at someone eye-to-eye, it's weird. The whole glowing thing makes it weirder, but still."

"Riveting analysis, guardsman. As I was saying—"

"Hey, you're the boss. I'll make sure she isn't up to any Horde mischief." He attaches his two-handed sword's sheath the the harness backing his cuirass. "But talk about getting fucked over—if the ancient legendary hero joined the Horde."

Kurgan says nothing as she places Moske's helmet upon his head, adjusting the buckles and straps just right.

  


* * *

  


It should go without saying that Kurgan hates Adora.

The 'why' is a little complicated, though. It's not just that she was part of the Horde. It’s rather the very real possibility that five-year-old Kurgan could have just as easily ended up in a Horde training camp in Zone F-1 as she did in Bright Moon. The only things that kept her from wearing that crimson uniform were time, place, and chance. That’s it. 

But Adora? Seventeen years of ceaseless conditioning, bucked from her shoulders in a _day._ A few leisurely chats with Glimmer and Bow and she saw that she was on the wrong side, just like that. Kurgan likes to imagine she would be the same—no, better. She would have defected at fifteen, no—thirteen, even. _Younger._ She would have hauled ass to Bright Moon with as many secret military plans as possible and made a name for herself. 

Would that have happened, though? Or would Kurgan have just… fallen in line, accepted each badge and pin with pride, and waded into Thaymor swinging her sword without reservation? Would she have ever questioned her cause, her purpose? 

Kurgan touches the few razor nicks that have scabbed underneath the fuzz of her new mohawk's undercut as she stares into the mirror.

Has she ever questioned Bright Moon, really? The better question is, why start now?

  


* * *

  


When they get news of Thaymor, unease settles upon the castle. The guards standby to assist with the refugee camp near the castle, but between the refugees themselves and the townspeople, the operation takes care of itself. With each day more refugees arrive... until they don't. Each day Kurgan walks down among the tents and asks for anyone who knows of a Veili, describes her dark jade eyes and slightly rectangular pupils with unsettling detail. The answers are few: people knew her only in passing, as an acquaintance, someone played with in childhood, a friend of a friend. She had left years ago. Nothing more than that.

Kurgan watches Veili closely during training, observes her from a distance as she patrols. She is, as far as Kurgan to tell, the very image of composure. She cannot help but feel proud, knowing that she has helped craft and temper such a warrior.

It isn’t until nightfall and it’s time for change of watch—and the end of Veili’s watch—does Kurgan find her bunk empty. _Damn._

Well, Kurgan knows where to look. She walks the long colonnades to the garden, nodding to the few guards she encounters on the way. Massive as the castle gardens are—you could fit another barracks and training yard in them—Veili has her preferences, as far as flora goes. There’s a pink flower that only grows in Thaymor that should be blooming as of now.

It takes fifteen minutes of searching, but Kurgan finds her, sitting cross-legged amongst those very flowers, still wearing her standard issue tunic and breeches. It’s the kind of sight a more artistic mind would immortalize in a painting; Veili, the moonlight hazy on her neck and arms, the faint gleam of those short black horns, the contrast of pink petals and dusky skin. Kurgan feels like an intruder, now, every glance a crime.

 _Focus._ Kurgan gets within ten feet. 

She cocks her head slightly at a footstep. “I’ll report to the barracks,” Veili says dully. “I know we have training first thing tomorrow.”

Something in her tone rankles Kurgan. It’s so… “That doesn’t matter right now. You do, okay?”

Veili doesn’t say anything. Kurgan takes a few steps closer. Veili doesn’t look like she’ll bolt (which, a few stressful times at the very beginning, she did). Kurgan reaches out—and realizes that she is still wearing her gauntlets. She sighs and pulls them off.

“I guess this is how Moske feels,” Veili murmurs. “He puts a pretty good face on it.”

Kurgan sits down next to her—carefully, both not to crush the flowers or send Veili running. “It was different. He was there, when it happened.”

“Unlike me, the coward.”

Kurgan bites down her irritation. “You had no way of knowing.”

“I was too much of a coward to face—what my family and elders wanted for me. I was a petulant child, I ran away, I join the army. And when they needed me—”

“You’ve been training to _protect them,_ ” Kurgan says. “That’s what you told me.” Veili never told her the whole story. Kurgan doesn’t expect to get it now.

“Yeah,” Veili says bitterly. “How’d that turn out?”

“Would you have been able to protect them if you were back there?”

Veili just stares down at the flowers. 

“Those Horde soldiers have been training to kill since they could walk, and five years ago—” Kurgan catches herself falling into that military-style, dispassionate cadence. She clears her throat, swallows, and scoots a little closer, still mindful of the flowers. Their knees are almost touching (well, poleyn-to-knee). “There… isn’t anything you could have done, Vei. I know that, you know that.” Kurgan feels something angry rising in her. “Without Bright Moon cavalry, it took _She-Ra_ to turn them back.” She-Ra alone, to be specific. 

Veili doesn’t say anything to that. She just shakes her head, eyes full of tears. “It didn’t feel real before.”

A younger Kurgan would have admonished her, _berated_ her, told her she was immature and selfish if it took personal suffering for her to consider the Horde ‘real.’ But, thankfully, Kurgan has learned one or two things since she was seventeen. So instead, she places her gloveless hand on Veili’s back and rubs a slow, gentle circle. “I know,” Kurgan says quietly. “I know.”

Veili sobs. She lets herself be enfolded in Kurgan’s arms—awkward though Kurgan is still wearing full armor, awkward though Veili is three inches taller than Kurgan, awkward though an officer and subordinate shouldn’t be acting like this. One of Veili’s horns is prodding Kurgan in the cheek, but she doesn’t care. Veili’s body heat seeps into Kurgan—she had always been warmer, by nature of her birth. When was the last time she had held her like this?

Fuck it.

Kurgan holds Veili under the moon and they both dream of Thaymor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're always talking about heroes and prophecies... what about everyone else? What about those random people in the background who don't have powers and are just trying to live? The 'acceptable losses' when a city is captured and razed by enemy forces. 
> 
> Kurgan's got three more years of this adventure to go. Let's see how far she makes it before reality hits or fate decides she's taking the space of a protagonist. She'll run into the main cast, other unimportant bystanders like herself... it'll be something, alright.
> 
> It's an odd story, I know. Review and let me know what you think.


	2. Death, the Friend

The problem with Moske is that given enough time, he can become anybody's friend. No, seriously, anyone. Person, animal, inanimate object, solid, liquid, gas, dead, alive, whatever. If he had the tact and patience to be a diplomat that would be one thing, but his main approach to diplomacy is by the sword or axe and cursing. So it turns out most of the ruffians and outlaws doing time in the Bright Moon city jail are actually on quite good terms with Moske, and he visits them often to play cards or dice or bring wine. The city sheriff doesn't approve, obviously. But, eh, fuck him, right?

So that explains why, when he begins regularly sparring with Adora in the fight yard, Kurgan is quite annoyed. She watches them clash—wooden greatswords loud in the cool, still air of the late morning. Kurgan can tell Moske is holding back—not to be polite, but to hide his technique and prevent Adora from gaining insight into how to counter him. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to be so careful—Adora is _incessant_ , always on the attack, high or low, shouting as she swings or their swords meet, throwing elbows and knees without ado when their blades bind. Nearly all of Moske’s hits against her are ripostes. The only times Adora slows down is when Moske knocks her flat on her ass (she’s on her feet before Moske can extend a hand) or lands a particularly painful strike to knee or elbow or head (Moske apologizes profusely), but then she springs back into it. After two hours Adora is ragged and sweating and panting—and grinning, eyes shining, hair fallen out of her ponytail and full of dirt. Moske looks like he just got out of bed.

The two shake hands and go their separate ways. Moske gives Adora a little punch in the shoulder—she returns it twofold. Kurgan bites the inside of her cheek; she was hoping to see She-Ra emerge during the spar.

"Guardsman Moske," she says once they are alone (that's how he knows he's busted—she comes in hot with the rank title). "You had one job. I told you to keep an _eye_ on her, not make her more dangerous!"

"Okay, about that..." Moske strips to his stupid plaid boxers and completes his after-training ritual of dumping a bucket of water over himself. Kurgan tosses him a towel before he can shake-off like a dog. She notices a scullery maid peeking at Moske from behind an ornate column—she glares at her and the girl takes off. "I am keeping an eye on her. From very close range!" He shrugs, makes a face, rubs at a shoulder. "Besides, she's pretty good. Not like—" He waggles his fingers in Kurgan's direction—" _Trained by Juliet_ good or Team Forlorn Hope good, but she definitely has the basics down. Whatever they ran her through in the Horde academy shat out one tough kid. She's not gonna pick up anything from me."

Kurgan narrows her eyes at the greatsword on Moske's back. "Is that right?"

"Hey, c'mon Sarge. It’s _me._ ” He flashes her a winning smile, teeth and all. “Trust me on this." 

  


* * *

  
"So... that Adora, huh?"

Bow glances at Moske, pausing his draw. "Um... what about her?"

"She seems nice, is all," Moske says with that lazy casualness of his that drags out his syllables. "I was surprised. A lot nicer than you'd expect a brainwashed Horde psycho cultist to be, anyway."

Bow laughs. "I know, right? Like did you know they don't even have birthdays in the Horde?"

Okay, that does take Moske aback. The man loves his birthdays—he knows the birthday of everyone on the guard. "What? For real?"

"Yeah, she didn't even know what cake was!" Moske gives him a skeptical look, so Bow plows ahead. "No parties or celebrations at all. Even when they get promoted, it's just 'here's your badge, get lost.' You'd think more people would defect if they had to live like that."

"...Yeah," Moske murmurs. "You'd think." Bow is intelligent, but he is not wise. That's youth, Moske supposes. But Moske has seen how the thieving urchins in Bright Moon city would die for their handlers, even with the evidence of abuse bruising their faces. Bow had two loving, intellectual, compassionate fathers, a band of brothers, and no lack of friends. He doesn’t understand—not out of apathy, of course. He’s just… from a different world. Moske is glad Bow never had to know it.

The archery range is empty but for them, which doesn't happen too often. There's usually a handful of off-duty guards practicing with their bows or crossbows or javelins (or bolos, if they're feeling kind), plugging away at the mannequins that Kurgan continues to build despite her rank. 

Bow prefers an empty range—it lets him try out his new arrows without having to worry about collateral damage (Moske doesn't count—he's happy to be a third-party reviewer). These mannequins have been blown up, incinerated, electrocuted, melted by acid, encased in ice, sliced apart by razor wire, bound with ropes... the list goes on. Moske’s personal favorite is the exploding one—it’s a classic.

But Bow’s brilliance as a bowyer and fletcher makes Moske self-conscious about his simple recurve bow (it's almost the height of Princess Glimmer, when strung!), sometimes. Yes, he can pull more poundage than the majority of the guard and tag a mannequin at a hundred paces with ease, but... there's something in the way Bow does it. He makes it both a science and an art form. When Moske does it, it seems... only brutal.

Everything about Moske just ends up being brutal, he thinks wryly. 

  


* * *

  
Kurgan pours herself her third cup of mulled wine, just up to the rim. She usually only needs one to get to sleep (they make this one strong), but it has been an eventful week and her heart has been beating just a bit faster. Veili fixes her with _that_ expression—brow low, frowning, slight pout, eyes searching—you know, that one. Kurgan ignores her—she worries too much. At the first drink—this one tastes better than the last—she tries to recall where this nighttime ritual came from. It’s been years… when she was sixteen, maybe? Old man Gauge (who was, at most, twenty-three at the time) offered her a cup and calling it juice, expecting to see Kurgan spew it out in disgust. To his horror, she quaffed the whole thing and asked for another.

As ever, there is talk in the guard barracks. Kurgan does not bother to name the voices—she just lets the noise roll over her as her skin grows warm.

"We might march on Plumeria. Horde's moving in."

"Queen won't have it."

"We march double-time we'll get there in less than a week, cavalry even faster."

"You know how it is. We hold up here."

"Those tree-huggers won't last a day."

"They lasted thousands of years before this. They'll figure it out."

"Doubt it."

"Whatever. You gonna play that hand, or pass?"

“You in a hurry?”

“Sunrise shift tomorrow.”

“Sucks.”

“Better than graveyard.”

“Yeah." The sound of cards hitting the table. "Full house.”

“Fuck!” Laughter ensues. End scene.

Kurgan swirls her wine. This conversation plays out, one way or another, any and every time military action is taking place within Bright Moon's sphere of martial projection. Her opinion on the matter is simple: where the Horde goes, the Rebellion should go to meet them, knives out. But even if Glimmer shares her philosophy (though Glimmer is more 'blast them to dust with magic' and Kurgan is more 'cut them into pieces and bleed them dry'), Kurgan cannot defy the judgment of the Queen. Even if... even if her heart blazes with anger at the thought of sitting here, growing drunk and fat and soft as dead-eyed Horde irregulars tear across Plumeria, spawning more and more versions of Kurgan from the ash.

Kurgan gets another cup.

She sleeps heavy and dreamless. She dimly remembers Veili coaxing her to sit up, a gentle hand behind her head, pushing a cup of water to her lips. That may have been a dream.

The next morning, Kurgan is not hungover—by complete chance, surely. By another complete chance, Kurgan sees Glimmer and Bow and Adora busy at the stables. Bow is hitching two horses to a wagon filled with barrels and crates and sacks as Adora loads in the last of the cargo. Glimmer… supervises.

"What's all this?" Kurgan asks. Bow give a start, Adora spins around with her fists up, but Glimmer simply turns and grins, hands on hips (she is used to Kurgan's tendency to freakishly show up on the fringes of things, just before or just after important stuff happens).

"Expedited aid mission to Plumeria," Glimmer says with an air of authority—an air undermined by her bouncing with pride and excitement. Adora lowers her fists awkwardly. "We're actually getting out there!"

Kurgan flicks her eyes from the wagon to Glimmer and back again. "Do you have a retinue?"

"Nope!" Bow says cheerfully. "Just us. It'll be faster that way."

"You're... going into an area targeted by the Horde... without any soldiers," Kurgan says slowly.

"Are you forgetting someone?" Glimmer sing-songs, spreading her arms to frame Adora dramatically. Adora scratches the back of her neck, suddenly very interested in the wagon.

Kurgan sighs. And here she is at a crossroads: she wants to go. She wants go to Plumeria so badly. Anything would be better than just waiting and sharpening their swords and oiling their axes day after day. But... if this mission was approved by Angella... she has no choice but to trust her reasoning on the matter.

Maybe She-Ra really is all they need, for this objective. They wouldn't be in a full-blast theater of combat—the Horde would send a few strike force units, a mechanized expeditionary squadron at the very most. But Plumeria's landscape and flora was a defensive structure in itself, so it's not like they would be facing all of the Horde there at once...

"Okay," Kurgan finally says.

Glimmer gives her a pointed look. Kurgan recognizes it: the loving, sisterly 'yeah, thanks, I wasn't asking your permission, bitch' look she received so often when they were younger. It makes Kurgan's chest feel odd. "We're not going to engage them, it's fine. Will you relax?"

"I am very relaxed," Kurgan lies. "Well... if anything happens, come running back and we'll be here." Yeah, come running back over a _days-long_ journey, likely pursued by Horde scouts, if you need help. What a reassurance.

Even if it's an empty gesture, Adora gives her a resolved smile. "Thanks. We will." Kurgan doesn't know if that's Adora trying to be nice or if she doesn't actually know how far away Plumeria is.

She watches them go.

Kurgan goes to the guard board and picks up an extra shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than last time. Oh, well.


	3. Death, the Lover

You want a little side-story? Alright, we can do that. Let’s talk about when Team Forlorn Hope stopped being guards and began being soldiers. That was… three years ago, now.

Imagine this: you get out of the Whispering Woods, take a sharp turn from the meadows leading to Plumeria, and in a few days you’ll find yourself in the fabled Heartbreak Hills. (No relation to Broken Heart Bay or the Heartbreaker Heath.) There’s not much going on there—no villages or hamlets to speak of. Mostly just a place for artists to draw and poets to compose and young couples to swear their undying love to each other. In their defense, the Heartbreak Hills are indeed beautiful (check out the wildflowers in spring after the rain), if hard to traverse if you don’t know what you’re doing.

The point here is that it has very little military value. Too far to be a staging area for an assault on Plumeria, too close to the Whispering Woods to be considered safe from magical aberration or roving beasts. So what better place to send three nineteen year olds on a scouting mission for the Rebellion? (What they were scouting for, well… don’t overthink it. A fair chunk of warfare is looking competent, after all, and even Angella can see the discontent among the castle guard and what few common folk she can see from the vaulted windows of her shining perch. Glimmer is fourteen and has now entered such a state of rebelliousness you would think she is fit to lead the rebellion, and that mother-daughter domestic combat is likely one of the reasons Kurgan got sent on a mission—in a bizarre way, leading a war was Angella’s favorite way to de-stress. There were worse ways, Kurgan had thought, itching for wine at noon.) 

So, anyway. That’s how on an overcast morning, Veili was woken up by Kurgan gently shaking her by the shoulder. She groaned and tried to roll over—which is difficult in a bedroll.

“Up, Veili, up,” Kurgan murmured—but her cadence made it more like a lullaby than an order. Moske was already awake—sort of/kind of, propped up against the trunk of a nearby tree with his eyes halfway open. Veili sighed and sat up and rubbed at her eyes, shook out the gambeson she had been using as a pillow and slipped it on. Her neck and back were stiff. Her legs, shockingly, were not sore at all; she had her suspicions that Kurgan had set them at a slower-than-regulation pace, so they would be fresh and ready for a fight. Then again… they weren’t going to find anyone out here, so they might as well march double-time so they could get to their bunks faster.

In five minutes they were up and packed and armored. They were traveling light—but Kurgan’s idea of ‘light’ was (and still is) what most would call ‘medium.’ Her bastard sword, her shield, her crossbow with a dozen bolts (and her fighting dagger…and backup dagger…)—all while wearing a standard issue cuirass. Kurgan has done enough laps in head-to-toe armor to know that marching for days covered in metal is something, generally, to be avoided unless you enjoyed blisters and rashes and long nights of aching instead of sleeping. (Yet Kurgan insisted on carrying more than her fair share for the others; very odd.) Veili and Moske were a little more particular—just the arming sword and parrying dagger for Veili, just the greataxe and bow for Moske. Like Kurgan, Moske decided upon the cuirass; Veili went with just her trusted gambeson. 

Veili chewed her way through her Bright Moon ration breakfast (bread, dried fruit, dried meat; they know how to keep morale up) as Moske yawned and stretched. “There?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. He pointed at a craggy hill in the distance taller than the rest. Kurgan nodded; Moske sighed. Off they went.

It was an hour in and it began to rain, just a little.

“I fucking love this so much,” Moske declared.

“You can say you’ve been to the Heartbreak Hills now,” Veili said, breathy with exertion. 

“I can say I got soaking wet in the Heartbreaks. Every girl’s dream,” he grumbled. Veili laughed. Kurgan turned and gave them both a ‘really?’ look, but had to bite back her own chuckle.

They hit a flatter spot just before the peak. Thing is, so did someone else.

Even from behind, even from fifty paces, they knew Horde armor (probably better than they knew their own). The scout was alone, surveying the land below. Next to them was a portable communication booster.

Kurgan began moving forward without thinking and drew her sword.

The scout turned around when Kurgan was at twenty-five paces. To their credit, they did not hesitate; they lifted their communicator to sound the alarm—

And an arrow smashed through their gorget. They grabbed at the shaft sticking from their neck uselessly as they crumbled to the ground, kicking and seizing in the tall grass.

Kurgan whipped around to see Moske standing there with his bow, eyes huge, mouth slightly open. It’s an image that will be seared into her mind forever. But something icy stirred in the back of her mind: _I wanted to be first._

Veili had already dashed forward to kick away the scout’s handcannon and check the communicator; she sagged in relief to see that no one has been called. She then took another look at the body next to her and leapt away almost comically. 

“Look alive, soldier,” Kurgan said to her sternly as she approached the late Horde scout’s post-up. Communication booster was on—they’d have to be smart about turning it off, otherwise other Horde troops in the area would be suspicious. The faint rasping noise of the scout was distracting—Kurgan frowned at them. She reached down and yanked off their helmet. 

A woman about their age, dyed-green bangs fallen into her eyes, stared back up at them as she gasped hopelessly. Her eyes were wide and glassy and panicked—from the arrow through her throat, from her lack of air, from her blood loss, from being surrounded by three Bright Moon maniacs who would probably make her last moments a horrible, humiliating torture.

Kurgan draws her backup dagger and drives it up under the scout’s left armpit through the soft armor, cleanly piercing her heart.

As the scout goes, her eyes soften and lips try to form words. Kurgan doesn’t understand or try to. In under a minute the scout goes slack. 

_I was first,_ Kurgan thought.

They pored over the scout’s communicator (they ignore the personal text messages). It looks like Horde scout designation ‘1MM0R74L’ was part of a five-unit squad—well, four-unit, now.

“What do we do?” Veili asked quietly, staring at Kurgan. Moske is still painfully, conspicuously mute.

“We tell them to come on by,” Kurgan said as she punched in the coordinates, just like how Bow had shown her.  


  


* * *

  


  
Their first engagement with Horde troops went well, all things considered.

Forlorn Hope waited until all four of the Horde soldiers came into view from around the bend of the hill—three humanoids of standard size, and a bulky taurus, based on the horns jutting from the matte grey helmet. They were chatting easily among themselves, handcannons slung at their backs and arcblades at their belts. Kurgan loosed a bolt, Moske loosed an arrow—and then another—and then it all went to shit. 

One soldier went down with an arrow and bolt in their chest. The others wasted no time; one drew their handcannon and began firing from the hip. Another yanked their arcblade free and it crackled to life as they rushed Forlorn Hope’s position, the taurus following just behind. Moske took a face full of rocky shrapnel from the cannon blasts, dropping his bow—he drew his greataxe with a low, freakish noise. Kurgan had already tossed her crossbow aside, as re-cranking it would take too long. She and Veili leapt from their high ground into the fray—Veili dashing for the cannoneer, Kurgan taking on the other two. Green plasma shrieked past them but there was no time to look. Kurgan’s shield absorbed the kinetic force and energy discharge from the arcblade and she forced her opponent back, but the taurus just kicked her in the gut and sent her rolling in the mud. 

Moske dropped down from the ledge axe-first onto the taurus and sheared off their arm—but with a bellow they kept fighting and lowered their head and charged and slammed Moske into the wet dirt. Kurgan’s shield came flying out of nowhere and bashed the taurus’ head, cracking one of their horns. More cannon shots, loud and grinding, poisoning the air with the smell of ozone. The arcblade soldier moved forward again but Kurgan was ready; she parried the blow and lunged in halfswording, too close for the soldier to swing at her, and drove the crossguard of her sword behind the soldier’s knee. The second they hit the ground Kurgan has driven her blade into the inner unarmored portion of their cuisse and severed the arties. Blood flowed freely. The soldier screamed. It sounded like fury itself.

The taurus didn’t like that. They rounded on Kurgan, blood still spurting from the stump of their shoulder, but that was all Moske needed to sink his axe into the back of the soldier’s neck, splitting the spinal cord. The taurus dropped to the long grass silently.

Kurgan and Moske looked to Veili. She was on one knee, panting, clutching at her hand. Her gambeson was singed and smoking in spots. Kurgan quickly slashed the throats of the arcblade soldier and taurus before joining Moske in sprinting over to her—but it was done. The unarmored part of the cannoneer’s torso, where cuirass met belt, has been sliced open wide and pink intestines had spilled out. The rest of the soldier had simply been hacked up, white of the bones gleaming beneath neat divisions of flesh.

Veili wasn’t moving. Kurgan sank to her knees and held her shoulders. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Look at me.”

So Veili slowly raised her eyes to look at Kurgan. It took everything in Kurgan to not flinch away.

“Are you hurt? Show me your hand. C’mon, show me.”

Kurgan turned her hand over—burned, swelling, warm to touch. Only second degree. Not from the plasma beam of the cannon itself (she wouldn’t have a hand otherwise), but from the vented gasses. “You’re good,” she said. “Veili, Veili. Look at me. You’re good. You did so good. You were so brave. You saved us.” Veili was slowly shaking her head. Damn it. Keep talking, Kurgan, keep talking. Keep her here. Kurgan reached out, cautiously, with bloodied gauntlets, with shaking hands. “I’m so proud of you. Come here.”

Veili kept shaking her head. Her eyes were gigantic, unseeing. Kurgan could trace the slightly rectangular shape of her blown-out pupils. 

Moske moved to block Veili’s view of the body. Kurgan scootched a little closer. “Come here. I’ve got you. It’s me. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

Veili didn’t fall into Kurgan’s arms, or hug back. She just sat there as Kurgan held her and rocked her gently and spoke softly into her ear about nothing at all. Moske’s great arms encircled them, and they sat there together, falling apart and holding each other together as it continued to lightly rain.


	4. Death, the Stranger

You were probably curious, right? So before we get back to the where we were (after Thaymor), here's how the Heartbreak Hills situation wrapped up:

When they got back and walked through those pearly castle Bright Moon gates, something gave it away. The bandages soaked through and stiff with dried blood, the hasty stitching, the thousand-league stares, the limping... could've been anything, really. But their fellow guards pull them to the barracks—to General Juliet's office/miniature war room, rather—and leave them there blinking.

"After-action report," Juliet instructed.

They told her everything. Or, they tried to. Some details were fuzzy, others were so clear it was like putting paint to a canvas. Juliet listened without interruption and wrote in her logbook.

"Very good. Also, we have people you can talk to," she said when they finished. "Therapists up in the castle; make an appointment. This is going to be a difficult time for you."

Kurgan could detect something approaching _compassion_ under the pragmatism of Juliet's words. She glanced at Veili, who was staring straight at—or through—Juliet.

"That said, fine work. Report to the infirmary. Dismissed," their general says curtly. They don't bother to salute—it’d just tear stitches. They turn to leave.

"Guardswoman Veili," Juliet called to their backs. "A word."

Veili turned, mechanically. Kurgan and Moske lingered, but at a look from Juliet they took their leave.  


  


* * *

  


It wasn’t a celebration in the barracks, exactly. The same way a funeral is a celebration but _not_ at the same time.

They lit up all the good candles. It was a lot of drinking and small-sentimental-gift-giving and reminding Team Forlorn Hope of all the favors they've built up over the years. It was jokes and funny stories and goofy impressions of each other. It was everyone making fun of the love letters Yeltz sends to his sorcerer girlfriend in Mystactor, shitty sappy poetry and cologne spritzed on them and everything. (Yeltz then reminded everyone he actually had a girlfriend, unlike some people, which mostly shuts them up. She did visit once, robes and staff and everything; everyone agreed she was very kind and intelligent and couldn't figure out what she saw in Yeltz, really.)

It wasn't the worst time. Veili turned in for bed only after an hour, though. Sober as the day she was born. Mumbled something about "tired" and “hand hurts,” which Kurgan believed.

Four hours later Kurgan needed some air. That was the seventh arm wrestling match of the night (a tie, after five minutes of straining and glaring) and the small bones in her wrist don't feel so good. She stumbled her way out of the barracks (not spilling a drop of wine, somehow) and into the fight yard, admired a few of her better mannequins, and climbed up onto the stone wall dividing the yard from the rest. That'd do.

"Yo, 'sup, Kurgan?"

Kurgan gave a tired wave—more like a flick of her wrist. He knew all her usual haunts. "Hey, Gauge."

He hauled himself up and sat down next to her on the wall. He peered over at the cup balanced precariously in her hands; Kurgan knew he felt guilty about introducing her to the brilliance of alcohol, but she would’ve fallen deep into the cups one way or another. She doesn't know why he lets it bother him. "How you holding up? With the—you know."

"Can I be dead honest with you?"

Gauge gives her a sincere, intense look. He has, in an odd way, been the closest thing Kurgan's had to a brother. Moske is… not fraternal. "You always can. I'm always honest with you." Well, now he was, anyway, since the wine 'joke.'

"I feel _great._ "

They both waited on each other to speak. Gauge went first. "That's pretty normal, Kurgan."

Her brows shot up. “Wait, what?”

"Hey, I'm being real with you." He scraped his nails over his newly-shorn scalp; old man Kolle (age 24) had shaved waves upon the sides, a reminder of Salineas. "It's different for everyone, because each time is different. I didn't feel bad after my first kill... because it was them or my team." He spread his hands. "What was I going to do? Stand there?"

"Some people do," Kurgan said.

"Well, guess I'm not 'some people,' then." He reached over and swiped her cup and took a long drink. She swiped it back. "You're not... a psychopath, or a monster, is what I'm getting at here."

"I figured."

"Well, good."

"Just... _some_ people feel nothing. Kolle said for him it was like doing chores in the barracks. But..." She squinted up at the moon. "I want to be out there again. I want to feel it again." Is she saying this out loud? She shouldn’t. This is… not how people are.

Gauge clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Totally normal. That's called fighting the good fight."

They don't say much for a bit.

"Has Veili said anything to you?" Kurgan asked in a small, careful voice.

He sighed. "Not yet." Gauge rubbed at his knuckles, frowning. "Give her time. Some people need... time. I did."  


  


* * *

  


Veili needed a week.

She would eat and sleep and get out of bed to go to the bathroom and that was mostly it. Kurgan had never seen someone sleep sixteen hours in a single day.

After two days of that, Veili did get up—to run laps. Run laps in full armor—which she never, ever did. Kurgan hadn’t seen Veili in a full set of armor since those first training days.

So Kurgan let it go, at first. People process in different ways. And hey, better than just staring at the wall in her bunk for hours on end, right? But Veili just... kept going. She didn't specialize in full armor, she wasn't used to the weight, but she just... kept going. She ran herself into the ground, gasping on her hands and knees, sweat dripping from her forehead like rain, coughing and spitting and ragged.

After two days of that, Kurgan stepped into Veili's path during one of her ‘runs.’ Veili tried to go around without making eye contact; Kurgan grabbed her.

"What are you doing?"

"Laps."

"No shit, _why_ are you doing this?"

"I need to think."

"You can think without running so hard you throw up at night." Kurgan's mouth twisted. "Especially when you're barely eating."

Veili wrenched herself away from Kurgan. "Your input is appreciated, _Sergeant,_ " she said flatly. 

Kurgan's hand curled into a fist. Veili's a lot stronger than she was two years ago; Kurgan can't physically move her so easily, anymore. "What can I do? I want to—" She took a breath. “ _Let_ me help.”

For a moment, there was a flash of something in that hollow gaze—then it was gone. "Let me run."

Kurgan stared at the ground and nodded—once. Veili moved around her and continued on. She smelled like days of nervous sweat and dust and metal.  


  


* * *

  


Moske knew the right things to say, or he said them at the right time; either, or, whatever. Veili started seeing the therapist. She improved. Slowly.

Kurgan suspected it was because Moske was seeing a therapist, too, but she never asked. There was never a good time.  


  


* * *

  


Glimmer wanted to know every last detail. How much blood, which organs, what limbs were chopped off, what weapons they used, if there were one-liners. If the Horde soldiers died with cold, sneering arrogance or if they begged for their lives like cowards.

Kurgan gazed tiredly into Glimmer's attentive face, those eyes alight with too much curiosity. Yeah, Kurgan was this bloodthirsty when she was fourteen, she thought back. Worse, probably. She would go into the city and watch the butcher work for hours, after all, let her senses soak up the meat and blood. That's not standard kid behavior.

"It sucked, Glimmer," she revealed at last. "It was raining and muddy. Wouldn’t recommend it."  


  


* * *

  


With the scalpel-sharp point of her fighting knife, Kurgan cuts two tally marks into the skin of her inner forearm.

They're small marks, but she wanted to leave enough space for the rest that were going to come.  


  


* * *

  


It was a good two weeks later before the dream happened.

Kurgan was lying in a cozy stretch of wildflowers in the Heartbreak Hills. The sun was just warm enough and the breeze was just cool enough and it was all very picturesque. She sighed contentedly.

Someone next to her sighed contentedly, too.

So Kurgan looked. Looking back at her was the Horde scout, propped up on an elbow.

So that was how it was going to be. Kurgan frowned. She could’ve gone with _’this is a dream’_ or _‘this isn’t real’_ or _‘you’re dead,’_ but she didn’t. She just looked, and the Horde scout looked back—a little knowing smile to her lips. This woman didn’t really check the boxes for what Kurgan expected in a soldier of the Horde—those eyes and dimples and green-dyed bangs that brushed her brow were too…

The scout was still encased in her armor—no helmet, obviously—which Kurgan found odd. The scout glanced down at herself, shrugged, and just like that was wearing a Horde-issued base uniform instead. Kurgan’s breath caught at the dark, crawling scar peeking up out of the woman’s collar; the scout touched at it and a nostalgic air came over her—for just a moment, as she returned her focus to Kurgan. Kurgan’s cuirass, that is.

With a strained noise, Kurgan kept it on. The scout shrugged again, trailing a hand up the breastplate.

Kurgan woke up tense and sweating and shaking and happy and she didn’t know why.


	5. Death, the Traveller

Break out the wine. So it turns out all of the worrying was for nothing, because Plumeria rallied up its fragrant levies and managed to beat back the Horde from their borders with minimal casualties. On the Rebellion side, anyway. Celebrate? Celebrate.

Great. No, really, it’s _great._

Well, let’s be real, here. It was She-Ra being there that turned the tide, not the people of Plumeria remembering their distant past as being fearsome, forest-dwelling savages that the other kingdoms told scary stories about. And knowing that the Rebellion is now in possession of such a destructive and inspiring walking weapon should be exhilarating to Kurgan, or at the least a little reassuring. But it just finds her in the fight yard, taking her own mannequins to task with the edge of her bastard sword, over and over again until she’s looking at kindling instead of a target.

She-Ra. Mara. First Ones.

Myths and legends and fairy tales, weeks ago. Now all of it was real and in her face and _happening right now_. Kurgan will never admit that she would mutter a devotional to Mara when things looked like they were going to shit in the field—when a Horde plasma handcannon was charging up right in front of her (Moske tackled her out of the way), when launched poison gas canisters rolled to her feet (Veili picked her up and ran), when her shield had been hacked apart by arcblades (they both appeared, weapons ready). But now… now, looking at Adora in the halls, those devotionals are bitten back and choked down.

  


* * *

  


Funny thing about Bright Moon: everyone here wears shoes of some kind. It was one of the first things Veili had to get used to when she first showed up, wide-eyed and jaw-a-hangin’. Flat shoes, heeled shoes, slippers, boots, sabatons, you name it. No one went barefoot… ever. (Excluding her, once she settled it. She wore socks as a compromise, afraid to bring down the wrath of civilization upon her. It took Kurgan and Moske hiding her socks from her one humid summer night to convince her to get out there, toes free and without shame.)

So when she hears the padding of bare feet in the Bright Moon kitchens at two in the morning, she spins and has her hands on her swords in a heartbeat.

Standing there, looking guiltier than any human can, is Adora.

Veili releases her fingers from the hilts of her blades. She does not salute; she stands straighter, though. “Good evening, She-Ra,” she greets. Or good morning? Whatever. It’s dark out.

Adora flinches at the sound, as if Veili will blow her cover. “Oh! That’s—that’s okay, just Adora is fine!” she sort-of whispers.

Moske spars with Adora pretty often, now (enough to be on first-name basis, which is kind of weird), but Veili doesn’t have much of a reason to be around Adora—or even look at her, really. Notice her at a distance, usually tagging after Glimmer and Bow, but that’s it. (Since Thaymor, Veili hasn’t been noticing much lately, to be honest.) So… Veili takes a look. 

The hero out of Etherian myth and living legend herself is… wearing a plain tank top and boxers, hair pulled up into a messy high ponytail, and wringing her hands like she’s going to be tried for capital crimes. She doesn’t look like the savior of the stories; she looks like an overeager recruit who forgot to get enough calories and protein for the day and scampered down to the kitchens to fix that. (Which… makes sense, as being She-Ra is probably pretty energy-demanding. Not that Veili really knows anything about magic or whatever.) She’s shorter than Veili (then again, most people are shorter than Veili, so…), which kind of messes with the ‘ass kicking hero’ thing, too.

“I was just, aha—you know what, ha,” Adora babbles, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb and panic becoming more and more obvious in her expression, “I’ll just, I’ll just go—”

“You want me to make you something?” Veili asks mildly. 

Adora turns, eyes wide and shining with wonder. “You can _do_ that? What rank are you? Are you an officer?” She pales. “Should I—should I be saluting _you?_ ”

Veili just stares at the girl. This… doesn’t follow the script on what Horde soldiers are like, at all. In those three years of active duty, Veili had known them as calculating and merciless and pragmatic, not… _this._

“Adora... if you’re hungry, you can ask for food any time. It’s not rationed for you.” She makes sure to add the _for you_ on the end. “We could bring it to you, even, if you’re busy with... Rebellion stuff.” Very cool, Veili, very professional. You’ll make officer in no time.

Those eyes become wider, somehow, reflecting moonlight. But it’s not just wonder—there’s the guilt, again. “I couldn’t ask you to—”

“Glimmer does it all the time.” At every hour of the day and night. On weekdays and weekends. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense to Veili, because can’t she just… teleport to the kitchens?

“Glimmer’s a princess! And—well, does _Bow_ do it?” Adora has a suspicious tilt to her head, now.

Bow’s too nice. Adora probably picked up on that the day she met him. Veili dodges the question. “A-do-ra,” she says in that drawn-out way that disarms Kurgan. “There’s bread from this morning, and there’s meat drying in the smokehouse. You want a sandwich? I can make you a sandwich.” A pause. “I’m making you a sandwich. C’mon.”

Adora is frozen for half a moment before she vigorously nods, a huge smile breaking across her face.

  


* * *

  


When Kurgan gets the news about the Salineas operation’s success, she gets it when everyone else does: by the time it’s over and Adora, Glimmer, and Bow are relaxing at home. This causes Kurgan to do the opposite of relax.

“General, with all due respect,” which from Kurgan meant the exact opposite, “you gave the go-ahead on sending _three people_ to Salineas, which has been targeted for a Horde landing for months?”

Juliet continues reviewing the after-action report put together by Bow. There’s some loopy pink writing in the margins of the parchment emphasizing Glimmer’s great negotiation skills, and some freakishly neat red print adding a few technical details (the exact size of the Sea Gate, the exact time required to energize the Sea Gate with the Sword of Protection, the exact speed of the Horde corvette before it exploded, the exact volume of ocean water Mermista weaponized, and on and on and on). “That’s right, Sergeant. And now there is one more princess throwing her tiara into the ring.”

Kurgan’s knuckles pop, she balls her hands into fists so hard.

“I would suggest watching She-Ra spar in the fight yard,” Juliet says coolly, not looking up. “Or sparring with her. I don’t think you fully appreciate what she’s capable of.”

Capable of? _Capable of?_ Kurgan grits her teeth. Adora learned about sandals in Salineas, apparently. She’s infatuated. She wears the damn things everywhere.

_Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop._

She’s capable of pissing Kurgan off.

  


* * *

  


It’s a balmy night. 

By some great coincidence, all three members of Team Forlorn Hope don’t have patrol shifts for the castle that night, or the next morning. This doesn’t happen too often, so they make sure to celebrate these rare occasions in what simple ways they can.

In this case, it’s hanging out at their favorite section of the battlements, quiet and secluded from everywhere else, wearing their gambesons loose and open like common jackets. It’s also indulging in the leaves of the famed Philosophy Plant of Plumeria. This is also known in Bright Moon, colloquially, as ‘getting high as fuck.’

“Alright, alright, can I get a little treasonous with y’all?” Moske asks as he packs another bowl.

“Y’all,” Veili drawls out in his rural accent.

“Don’t come at me, treehouse girl.” Moske snorts and chuckles. “So—so like, it’s called the Rebellion, right? The fuck are we rebelling against? We’re the kingdom, here! They’re the invaders!”  
  
Veili groans. “Didn’t Gauge tell you? He told you. He tells everyone.” Kurgan nods sagely at this, eyes closed.

“… Maybe? Gauge tells us a lot of stuff. Some more… how do I say… relevant than others.” He raises the small candle they brought along and toasts up the pipe. He takes a long draw, holds his breath, and exhales a stream of floral smoke. “That,” he says with a little cough, “that’s the shit. Wow.” 

Veili takes the pipe from him. “You remember the First Princess Alliance?”

“Wish I didn’t have to, sometimes.”

“So it disbanded, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Disbanding isn’t the same as dissolving, politically, by the old laws. Everyone just went home, instead of signing all the treaties and charters to make the breakup official. So… it still exists.”

Moske coughs again, staring at her incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Well… it exists, but…” Veili waves the pipe back at the castle. “No one cares about it. Officially. But that means everything the Queen has been doing for all these years is… kinda, sorta, illegal-ish? Technically?”  
  
Veili takes a hit as Moske squints at her, then back at the castle. “So she’s the original rebel of the Rebellion.”

“Her and Netossa and Spinnerella,” Kurgan adds.

“Damn,” Moske mutters, blinking up at the moons above. “That’s… somehow both super cool and super bureaucratic.”

“I’ll tell Angella that she’s gained your approval,” Kurgan says dryly.

The other two laugh—though even high as shit there was a slight pause, a slight glance at each other, at Kurgan’s easy usage of the Queen’s name. No one in the barracks calls the Queen just ‘Angella’ but Kurgan, and it’s been a habit that she can’t exactly break. Then again, Kurgan hasn’t tried all that hard.

“You two ever been to Salineas?” Moske asks. He already knows the answer, but he always does this, starts conversations in simple ways.

“Never seen the ocean,” Kurgan says as Veili hands her the pipe. 

Veili touches her horns. They always get a little… fuzzy-feeling when she’s high. It feels nice. “It’s a big lake you can’t see the other side of.”

Kurgan shrugs, blowing smoke from her nostrils. “A few ponds here and there.”

“It’d be weird,” Moske muses, “to live on an island. Just… water all around, nothing but the land and people you’ve got within a day’s walk. I’d probably go crazy. Shit, I almost went crazy just living in a village where everyone knew my name.” 

“A planet is basically an island in space,” Kurgan points out.

Veili and Moske look at her. 

“What?”

Moske shakes his head. Veili giggles. “Maybe consider a guardship contract in Plumeria,” she says, patting Kurgan’s knee affectionately.

“Only if you’d come with me,” Kurgan says with a sudden and blunt sobriety. She blinks.

Moske reaches past Veili and squeezes Kurgan’s arm. “We’d smoke through their sacred stash in a week and get chased out. We’d never recover from the bad vibes.”

  


* * *

  


News of Dryl comes along not long after that.

Kurgan watches with arms crossed as Bow comes to provide the after-action report to Juliet. 

“Glad you got out of there in one piece,” Kurgan calls out to him as he passes. Instead of giving a nod or a quick response and heading on his way, Bow smiles and stops and jogs over to her; Kurgan probably should have predicted that. (She hopes her eyebrows don’t betray her surprise.) It should be said that Kurgan _does_ respect Bow, and no, it doesn’t have to do with that they’re about the same height.

“Hey, Kurgan! We almost didn’t!” He holds out his arms—they’re covered in bandages, but he’s still grinning like he’s telling the story of a bachelor party gone sideways instead of possible death. “I always knew Entrapta could get ahead of herself when it came to technology, but—”

His tale of bravery and combat and everyone’s differences making them valuable to the effort (combined arms warfare, Kurgan’s brain automatically registers) goes on for fifteen minutes as they walk together. A maze of a castle, a princess who was too pleased at her dominion falling into chaos, and robots—so, so many robots, all with glowing red eyes. There are times she wants to interrupt—to question the tactical reasoning behind this action, or that maneuver—but she somehow shuts herself up. 

“We could have really used you,” he says, with the polite note of finality that means a conversation is just about done.

Kurgan wasn’t expecting that. Her brows lower. “It sounds like you had it under control,” she says with a lightness she doesn’t feel.

Bow elbows her. “Yeah, only because I _just so happened_ to have a sonic arrow and the traps didn’t get me!” 

They’re at the castle proper, now. Bow has a meeting at the war room; they bid their goodbyes. 

Kurgan has never seen a robot, she thinks to herself. She wonders what they look like.


	6. Death, the Rival

Moske is way up high on a spire’s battlement inspecting a ballista. See, at the end of the day a ballista is a giant crossbow, and you have to consider the same things. In this case, making sure both limbs harness the exact same amount of energy before firing off the bolt. That’s called “tiller,” if you were wondering.

Far down below, he spots Bow walking away from the guard barracks.

“Wonder what that’s about,” Moske muses to himself.

It turns out the secret vacation day to Mystacor (which Team Forlorn Hope had known nothing about) ended up being an accidental mission, so Bow had yet another after-action report to deliver to General Juliet. 

And why should Kurgan even be surprised, at this point? Wherever She-Ra goes, either she finds trouble or trouble finds her but either way between the Sword of Protection or being nearly seven feet tall she saves the day without fail. But it’s not like Kurgan would have anything to do with Mystacor, anyway. An exclusive club of academics and elitists, chosen only by the luck of their birth, practicing parlor tricks with magic while everyone else who _doesn’t_ live in a floating invisible palace has to scrape by in the dirt. Kurgan can only name three good sorcerers: Micah, because… Micah was always good. Yeltz’s girlfriend, whose name she forgets, and Castaspella, since… she sort of adopted Kurgan as a niece/god-daughter back when she and Glimmer were younger. 

(Casta knit Kurgan a sweater for her thirteenth birthday. It's very green. She will die before she admits it, but she almost cried when she unwrapped it. It’s one of her most prized possessions. Somehow, maybe by magic, it still fits.)

Kurgan notices that Bow hands off two scrolls of parchment instead of one this time. She also notices that one of the scrolls has a rather sweet scent to it, and when Juliet unfurls it slightly Kurgan spies (over Juliet’s shoulder… by chance) handwriting she does not recognize.

“Personal correspondence, General?” Kurgan asks smoothly.

“Something of that nature,” Juliet replies with unabashed coolness, holding the letter protectively to her chest. “I believe you have a shift, Sergeant.” 

Kurgan gives a lazy salute and a wink before she heads off.

  


* * *

  


“Morning, She-Ra.”

Adora gives a start, hand going to the hilt of the Sword of Protection strapped to her back. She turns to find Kurgan leaning against a pillar of the arcade adjoining the training yard. “Hi, Kurgan,” she says brightly. She squints at the columns, as if expecting more people to spring out from behind them. “Have you seen Moske? We usually spar about this time, but…” She trails off, looking at Kurgan hopefully. 

“Moske is busy. Tension in the ballista cords is off.” Kurgan begins removing her plate armor, placing the pieces neatly upon a nearby bench. “I’ll be sparring with you today.” Down to her gambeson, Kurgan rolls her shoulders. She’s not used to feeling this light. She feels… _fast._

Adora’s brows go up in surprise, then a smile breaks across her face like a sunrise. “Oh—great! Thanks! I was getting a little worried, he’s usually here before me…” 

Kurgan hefts three different practice swords before she finds one that satisfies her—hand and a half, bastard style. “Couldn’t let you go without your daily practice.” She picks out a standard-length arming sword for Adora and tosses it to her. “Catch.”

Adora snags it out of the air effortlessly. 

They walk out into the fightyard proper, where the soil is packed hard. “Feel free to transform. We want to train both of you.”

“Um…” Adora’s face pinches in concern. “Today can just be an Adora day, maybe? If that’s okay?”

Kurgan raises an eyebrow. “Going easy on me already?”

“It’s just that…” Adora fiddles with her practice sword, avoiding Kurgan’s gaze. “Moske is… he’s, uh, you know. She-Ra sized.”

“Six feet, six inches, two hundred and seventy pounds, ten percent bodyfat percentage.”

Adora blinks.

“Big for a human. I had to get his uniform and armor commissioned custom. Blacksmith wondered if we had hired on another taurus.” Kurgan cracks her neck—twice. “I trained Moske, and I can still take him nine times out of ten.” On a really good day. If Moske is sick, or something. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  


* * *

  


Kurgan has been training to fight since she was five years old.

Adora has been training to fight since she could _walk._

Moske wasn’t kidding; she’s good. She doesn’t have the exactness of technique, but she has the footwork and spatial perception of a dedicated warrior. Adora doesn’t blink when the point of Kurgan’s practice blade comes within inches of her face. And what she lacks in finesse and nuance she makes up for in effort—she just doesn’t stop coming. When an approach doesn’t work, she moves on to another without ado. She may be the perfect example of the dangerous rookie—someone whose fighting style is unpredictable enough that they can throw off even an expert.

But at the end of the day, there’s scrapping with arcblade cleavers in Zone F-1, and there’s the dedicated study of time-proven combat manuals. Two hours later, Adora is sweating and flushed and her arms are trembling and fingers re-positioning unsteadily on the grip. She lunges forward—

Adora’s practice sword goes flying and clatters to the dirt. Kurgan takes the opportunity to take off her gambeson—it’s not like she’s sweating or getting heated or anything, it’s just that the weather’s warm, that’s all.

Kurgan gets her sword back up just in time as Adora rushes her.

She’s gotten better, Kurgan realizes. She sidesteps and shifts low and drives her pommel into Adora’s side as she passes. Adora folds—but only slightly, gritting her teeth and binding blades.

“Sorry,” Kurgan says, not sounding sorry at all. “Low blow.”

“It’s okay,” Adora says, eyes dancing with grey fire. “I’ll get you back.” She casually bumps her head back into the Sword of Protection’s hilt.  
Kurgan goes blind as golden light envelops the world. She has a full second to blink the flecks of color from her vision before a sudden force launches her backwards. She tucks and rolls up into a defensive stance, just in time to see her.

She-Ra.

Coming straight at her, arming-sword deftly held more like a long dagger.

Kurgan moves forward, aiming for the legs—but She-Ra parries with ease, the strength behind the blade jarring the bones in Kurgan’s wrists. No letting up now—Kurgan feels her teeth grind together as she pushes on, no longer waiting for Adora—She-Ra—Adora to strike first, but every blow is blocked or parried. Well, not every blow—sometimes Kurgan’s blade just bounces off of She-Ra's muscles harmlessly. A full-force cut from a wooden sword will stop Moske in his tracks, and he’s the size of She-Ra. But this? This is like fighting… a graceful, glowing tree. 

But Kurgan will not let up. Kurgan will not lose. She reads She-Ra—Adora—She-Ra’s movements, adapts. Strong, yes. Quick reflexes, yes. But it takes time to move limbs that long and that dense—so Kurgan focuses on spreading out her attacks, high to low to high, taking the offensive.

The eyes, Kurgan thinks. She halfswords her blade and moves in even closer, almost chest-to-chest—

And She-Ra knees her in the belly.

Kurgan hits the dirt facedown and doesn’t get up.

“Oh—no, no, no!” Adora transforms back into her usual self, practice sword forgotten as she rolls Kurgan over. “I’m so sorry, I’m—” She looks down in horror as she sees Kurgan’s body seizing up, _convulsing,_ her whole body contracting in on itself as her eyes go empty and glassy—and five agonizing seconds later, a rattling whistle of air flows through Kurgan’s teeth.

She inhales. She then rolls over out of Adora’s grasp onto all fours and coughs and sputters.

“Do you—do you need some—I’ll get you some water!” Adora shouts, sprinting off. Kurgan is too busy trying to re-inflate her lungs to provide comment.

By the time Adora gets back (which was pretty fast, got to give it to her), Kurgan is sitting up crosslegged and looking very cool and composed, if dusty. “Thanks,” she says hoarsely as Adora gives her a canteen. 

She drinks. It doesn’t really help. If anything it makes the pain worse, but whatever. Eight glasses a day.

“I—Kurgan, I’m so sorry, really, I didn’t mean to, I just—I just got really _into it,_ you know, and you did that thing where you grab the blade of your sword, and I just—”

With a weary lift of the hand, Kurgan shuts her up, miraculously. She takes her time finishing off the canteen. “It’s fine, Adora,” she says, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her tunic. Talking hurts. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t want you to fight with any less than that.” Kurgan smiles up at her. Or, well, she tries to; she’s not so good at smiling, and based on Adora’s expression it might look more like a weird grimace. “Same time… next week?”

Adora huffs a half-hearted laugh. “You’re saying that to make me feel better.”

Is she? Hard to tell. “Nope. If you’re not here next week, I’m hunting you down.”

  


* * *

  


The next morning Kurgan can barely move. She wonders if this is how normal people feel when they're hungover. 

When Kurgan spends too many minutes fighting her bedsheets, Veili pushes up her tunic and gasps at the gigantic bruise occupying most of Kurgan’s abdomen. “What did you _do?_ ” She asks sharply. It’s the size of her entire hand; when she lays it upon Kurgan’s stomach she receives a hissing sound in return. Veili fixes Kurgan with a _look._

Kurgan resists rolling her eyes, somehow. “Training, Veili, training.” She grunts as she is pushed back down into bed, Veili’s fingers testing at each rib for cracks or breaks. “And no blood leakage, before you ask.”

“I’ll get your shifts covered,” she says, shaking her head. Kurgan frowns at that, but keeps her mouth shut. Veili looks at Kurgan—really looks at her—and opens her mouth slightly to say _something,_ but she just shakes her head again and leaves Kurgan alone in her bunk.

Kurgan would roll over to face the wall, but it hurts too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but here you go. Next chapter will be longer.


	7. Death, the Comrade

Kurgan pushes open the heavy doors to the Dark Side of the Moon.

Before you get too excited, you should know that the Dark Side of the Moon is not some kind of advanced military installation or ancient First Ones citadel, but a tavern. One of the better taverns in Bright Moon city, if you’re feeling like ranking them—beds are clean, drinks aren’t watered down, food isn’t just the stale scrapings off the butcher’s floor. What you’d expect from the wealthier quarter, really. Kurgan herself has no personal reason to come here; the kitchens of castle Bright Moon provide a steady flow of wine to the barracks and Kurgan is always downstream. And it’s not as if she’s looking for conversation or company, as we’ve come to notice. 

The reason she’s here is professional. The very professional reason is at the far end of the bar, brooding, unsteadily tracing his finger over the rim of his tankard. Guardsman Knutt, in the drunken flesh. Thank Mara (Adora, now?)—no, thank… the... the _old gods_ (nice save) he’s wearing plainclothes.

Kurgan grimaces. Moske knows how to talk to people, and Veili knows how to reach people. They’re better suited for this kind of thing. But, alas! They were both busy.

(Veili had put her hands on Kurgan’s shoulders and looked down at her with an encouraging smile. “Just imagine I’m there with you, okay?” It took years for Veili to talk about therapy—what she and the therapist talk about, how it helps, things like that. Kurgan listened when Veili told her about it, on quiet nights or boring shifts. A lot… made sense. Some seemed like made-up feel-good garbage, but most of it…) 

So Kurgan imagines Veili’s hand lightly touching her arm, warning her to not just grab Knutt by the collar and drag his ass back up the the castle. That helps, actually. 

She strides over and sits down next to Knutt.

“That seat’s taken,” he mumbles, still looking down. He seems very focused in the puddle of condensation that has formed beneath his tankard.

“It sure is now,” Kurgan mutters back.

Knutt raises his head, blinks, and looks over. “Shit,” he says.

Kurgan is wearing her gambeson—open, as if it were but a heavy jacket—and tunic and breeches, and while they are all the colors of Bright Moon livery she doesn’t really stand out too much. (Aside from the bastard sword at her belt, and the way her hand keeps traveling down to hold the scabbard securely when drunken patrons graze too close to her. A few glances go her way and the bouncers eye her, but carrying weapons isn’t forbidden in Bright Moon. Simply… frowned upon by polite society.) It wouldn’t be great for public relations for a uniformed soldier of the Rebellion to be publicly berating another in broad daylight where gambling types could take bets on how pissed Kurgan would get. “Shit indeed,” she says. “That’s, what, your third?”

With a shrug, Knutt takes another drink. Fourth, then. Given the size of the tankards here… that’s not great.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Kurgan says. "Early even for me."

“Sounds like I have a whole afternoon to sober up for the night shift.”

Kurgan waves off a barmaid who had been hovering at her shoulder. “That line would’ve been a lot cooler if you didn’t slur your way through it.” She snorts. “Nice try, though. I'll use it later.”

Knutt turns away—as much as he can, sitting at the end of the bar. 

The admonishment from an imaginary Veili lays prickling on Kurgan’s mind. So she sighs and tries again. “I was sorry to hear the news about Aerie, Knutt. I could tell from the way you talked about her…” Kurgan sighs again, studying the cuff of her gambeson. “Aerie…she felt like the one, didn’t she?”

“She _is_.” Knutt turns back around, spilling a bit of his—Kurgan sniffs, frowns—lager on the bartop. “Or… she was.” His voice has the slow, meandering character of someone very drunk doing their best to not sound drunk.

“Was it a letter?”

“No.” He leans an elbow on the bar, brow resting on his hand. “I wish it was. I wouldn’t’ve had to see her face.”

See the face of someone you loved with all your heart, and not see any love reflected back. Just sadness and pity and determination, instead. 

“I’m sorry,” Kurgan says. Because yeah, she means it. But also to buy time to figure out what the hell to say next.

“You said that,” Knutt mumbles. He drinks again. 

Kurgan looks at him. Knutt is a poster boy for the Rebellion, really; tall, handsome, lean muscular build, strong enough to throw you over his shoulder like it's nothing, soulful orange eyes, a smile boyish and roguish, the kind of soft tawny hair a woman could thread her fingers through before she swooned from the low, rumbling delivery of smooth line. The only real giveaways of his lupine grandfather are the sharp canines and furry chest hair. And the tail, obviously, can’t forget that. And the ears… well, anyway. He joined on late at sixteen; she remembers when he finally ranked up from squire to guardsman. At the time she couldn’t recall when she last saw such naked and open _happiness._

“I shouldn’t have joined the guard,” Knutt groans out. It sounds more like a confession. 

Her automatic impulse is to say ‘you’re full of shit and you don’t mean that,’ but Kurgan keeps her mouth shut somehow. She listens, instead.

“Not like I was smart enough to go to university with her. But… fuck. If I had just been around? If I could see her whenever, instead of it being like ‘oh sorry I have a shift or patrol’ and the like. I mean—fuck, I missed our last _anniversary._ I was out patrolling a bunch of rocks in the canyonlands near Grief Gulch and she was…” He throws a hand up. “In her dormitory. Alone. Reconsidering.”

Kurgan waves off the barkeep (she doesn’t recognize him—new hire, maybe), who turns to serve some rowdier patrons. He’s gotten enough money out of Knutt, today, and relying on Bright Moon military pension is a losing strategy.

“That was the plan… our plan. She goes to university, becomes a physician, I go to the castle and become an officer… we’d be a team. Power couple of the Rebellion.” He shakes his head and drinks. “It was all so stupid. High fantasy. Kid stuff.”

Yes, yes it was, but Kurgan somehow doesn’t say it out loud. Come on, come on, what would Veili say?

“Knutt...Being in love with a soldier is hard. It’s not just that they aren’t there. It’s… knowing they might not come back.” Kurgan adjusts the sword at her belt. “Or they might come back incomplete. Or different.” Or unable to be anything else but a soldier. “If she was going to be a physician… when they train them, they talk about that—the changes. They have to.” She dares a light pat at his shoulder. “What did she say? When she was telling you.”

Knutt looks up at one of the lamps of colored glass burning behind the bar, illuminating the bottles and kegs invitingly. “She didn’t know me anymore.”

Ouch. Even Kurgan has to hide the wince. Don’t lose track! Channel Veili, channel Moske! “Did you know _her?”_

Knutt glares at her. “No shit I did. Her favorite color is marigold, sunflowers are her favorite flower, her favorite drink is a Bright Moon mule, she’s allergic to cats, she loves to dance—I learned how, just for her—she loves to read, she hates scary stories, she was afraid of the dark until she was like ten, she likes it when I bite her just right, she can name every bone in your body, the _anatomical_ name, she can’t sing at all but she loves to sing, and—” He catches sight of Kurgan’s expression. “What? It’s a lot.”

“Yeah… it’s a long list. I get that.” Kurgan taps her gloved fingers against the polished stone bartop. “But… it’s still a list. Those are all true, but they’re… facts.” Kurgan could have done without the _biting_ info, but superiors must make sacrifices for their subordinates. “It has to go beyond that. You got together when you were fifteen?”

Knutt’s expression is… tight. A wolf faced with too many scents at once. “Grew up together. What’re the tropes? Childhood friends, friends to lovers?” He scoffs. "Textbook romance novel."

“Do you remember being fifteen?”

Knutt shrugs. “Do you?”

“The bad parts, mostly.” Fifteen wasn’t a good year for Kurgan, but then again, let's be honest with ourselves: which ones were? “What I’m saying is that a lot happens in five years, especially when you're that young. People change; you, Aerie, everyone. And this is all during a fucking war.”

“I didn’t _change,_ ” Knutt says forcefully. Kurgan can see his knuckles whitening on the handle of his tankard. He drinks.

“You were like a puppy when you first came to us,” Kurgan replies. Knutt’s ears flatten. “You were young and ready to save the world. You thought you had it all figured out.” Knutt grumbles something under his breath. Kurgan gestures emphatically, almost knocking out the barmaid (she dodges it skillfully). “Hey, you’re not special in that regard. Veili and Moske were like that at seventeen, so trust me, alright?” Kurgan shoots an apologetic look at the barmaid, who narrows her eyes at her; Kurgan turns back to focus on Knutt. “But after training, after you saw combat… well. C’mon, Knutt. You can’t tell me you didn’t change. That changes everyone.”

Knutt’s first kill was pretty bad, for all involved. A Horde trooper was trying to activate the self-destruct on a capsized skiff; Knutt rushed to stop him and the two were grappling in front of the control panel. Knutt had to rip off the helmet and bury his teeth into the trooper’s throat and _pull_ to stop him; he vomited for an hour straight afterwards. He couldn't eat meat for a month, which was unthinkable when it came to Knutt's palate. Even after, any dish cooked less than 'well done' still makes him—

“That didn’t _change who I was_ ,” Knutt counters. “It was… it was _tough,_ but—”

“You weren’t a kid anymore,” Kurgan states plainly. “Look, the first time you and Aerie were together, yeah, you can say she made you a man and you made her a woman, but… there’s more to it. There’s being made a man, and there’s finding out the kind of man you are.”

Knutt doesn’t meet her eyes.

“The kid you were at fifteen and the man you are at twenty… they’re different because of all that. And Aerie feels different from when she was fifteen, right? Aside from—” Kurgan waves vaguely. “Her tits getting bigger or whatever.”

Knutt opens his mouth—Kurgan can hear it, _‘don’t talk about my girlfriend that way,’_ —before closing it with a wet click. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Yeah.”

“And those letters you would send every week… it felt like there was less to talk about?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just drinks.

They sit in the comfortable noise of the tavern for a while. The troubadours start up a song; a bard, a small cingulate woman, begins singing. Kurgan doesn’t like this rendition—or the song itself, too sappy and sentimental—but her boot taps to keep time anyway.

“She loves this song,” Knutt murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

They sit and listen for a while longer. The bard’s voice—mezzo-soprano, Kurgan assumes—has a way of filling the awkward spaces for them, leaving only the companionable. After all, Kurgan does think Knutt is alright; definitely above-average as a person. (He's taller than her, but fuck it.) She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Eventually, Knutt turns to face her entirely. His tankard is empty. His expression is curious and amused and sad all at once. “You're only, what, two years older than me? Where’d all that old-and-wise-mentor-figure life advice come from, anyhow? You get this in sergeant training, or is this from personal experience?”

“I’m a good listener. Mayhaps I listen too much.” Kurgan beckons the disgruntled barkeep over. “A flask of water, cold, to go.” She pauses. “And flask of mulled wine to go, too. Warm. Don't skimp on the spices.” The barkeep blinks, brightens, and hurries off. “Clear your tab, Knutt. That's a direct order.”

“Am I on latrine duty?”

“Tempting, but no. We’re going for a nice long walk. After all of those—” Kurgan points to the tankard—“It’s going to take more than some water and few misaimed pisses to get you ready for the night shift.” She claps her hands. “Up, soldier.”

Knutt stands—then immediately falls back onto his stool. He blinks a few times, looking down at his legs as though they have betrayed him. “Requesting ten minutes to sober up, Sergeant.” 

Kurgan rolls her eyes, takes the wine flask from the barkeep, and drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have written this completely on the spot and not planned it at all.
> 
> My bad. Anyways, here's Knutt. You pronounce it "k'noot."


	8. Death, the Observer

Just so you know, the name “Team Forlorn Hope” didn’t just come out of nowhere. It didn’t come from a drunken night out that no one can remember, it didn’t come from an inside joke that no one remembered the start of. It actually came from a pretty ordinary place.

See, when they were all about twenty years old (Kurgan was newly officially the rank of Sergeant by this point, Veili and Moske had made Corporal shortly after) and had a booked back-to-back year of combat behind them, the trio were tasked with the simple mission of ‘dealing with’ (AKA killing with extreme prejudice, prisoners optional) some irregular Horde skirmishers who were harassing a semi-important trade route that ran through the Melancholy Meadows. (No one really knows why it’s called the Melancholy Meadows. Supposedly heartbroken widows and widowers go there to pine away to death, or something. But that’s not important.)

Thing is, by the time the three of them got there, the skirmishers got the bright idea of going from ‘harassing’ trade caravans to ‘blowing a big fucking hole in the road of the trade route itself.’

What this meant is that the three ride up on spent horses just as a few Horde engineers finished arming a high-yield plasma bomb. Things got heated. Then they got really, really heated. As in, plasma-temperature heated.

To make a long story short, no, that road isn’t there anymore. You're on the road, suddenly you're at a deep sooty crater, and a hundred paces away you see the rest of the road. The dust cloud from the explosion could be seen from Alwyn as a black, roiling pillar crackling with green energy. A grim courier reported the news of the route’s loss to General Juliet; when asked if there were any survivors, the courier laughed in her face (then blinked, noticed Juliet’s stare of pure ice, gulped, and quickly saluted, despite… not being enlisted). So that was the end of those three. Traders got tired of going around the crater, so a bridge was built. The Horde didn't bother that exact spot any more.

Maybe some explanation is in order. Plasma? Bombs?

When the Horde Commander (or Horde Overlord, if you like) first started making waves thirty years back, all of his troops were outfitted with the same technology as everyone else on Etheria. That is, wood and steel; swords and spears and axes and bows and crossbows. As time went on, they started fielding weapons and armor that were more advanced. Swords that crackled hot with energy (these became the dreaded arcblade cleavers), crossbows that fired bolts that exploded into green fire (these became the oft-cursed handcannon). Then the skiffs and tanks and other hovering vehicles… and all the other stuff you’re familiar with. 

The Horde Overlord-Commander (the first people who met him called him Horde-Amir-Khan; the name didn’t stick) always had that level of firepower, it seemed. That was how he got people to his side to begin with; finding existing conflicts, blowing one side up, and ‘encouraging’ the other side to join. Simple plan, but obviously, given how things turned out, it worked. Worked well enough to get the scorpioni of the high plateau to hand over their kingdom (in what was essentially a negotiated takeover, what the sorcerers of Mystacor called a 'color revolution' or something) and turn it into his first and main base: Zone FR16H7, what you may know as Zone F-1. (No one knows what the letters and numbers mean.) In time he established smaller, satellite Subzones: 5P00K (often shortened to P-5) and CR33P (C-3). 

The rest of Etheria had to play catch up. In thirty years, metallurgy had improved considerably. Advancements were made in ballistics and chemistry. New, grievous wounds led to new medicine and healing methods. Thirty years ago a crossbow bolt wouldn’t piece a modern Horde gorget; now it would do it with ease. But ballistae and mangonels and war wagons, improved as they are, aren’t enough against plasma cannons and hovering tanks.

To explain it quickly; yes, the First Princess Alliance and the current Rebellion has captured Horde technology before. The problem is that everything they have—cleavers, hand cannons, even armor—are somehow coded biometrically to Horde troopers. (Living Horde troopers; a severed hand, a curious scout discovered, could not bypass the lock on a handcannon. Perhaps body temperature and a heartbeat is required?) So an arcblade won’t activate, armor won’t articulate, and stuff like that. It’s been speculated by Mystcacor sorcerers that each weapon/armor set is personally coded to individual Horde soldiers, or everyone in the Horde has some kind of activator chip surgically installed. It's all guesswork.

Anyway, that’s that. We were talking about Team Forlorn Hope.

The next morning they showed up, mute and shell-shocked. The hair had been scorched from their heads; at first no one could recognize Moske as his beard had been incinerated. Their gambesons were charred, full of holes. 

Parts of their metal armor had melted and fused into their skin.

Kurgan and Moske said nothing, their eyes wide and seeing nothing. It was Veili, her short peachfuzzy coat of fur gone and her horns all the more conspicuous with her hair burnt away, who gently guided them along. 

When they reached the barracks themselves, Veili smiled weakly at Juliet as she held the others upright. “We could use some water,” she rasped out.

That was how it started. When you needed the three luckiest fucks around, that team of three was your go-to.

  


* * *

  


When their skin grew back, they decided to celebrate.

So, they all got matching tattoos. Before you ask, yes, this was decided while they were sober. Kurgan is still considered ‘sober’ after one cup of mulled wine, mind you.

They find highly spoken of tattooist in Bright Moon’s artisan quarter. She was completely unimpressed with their requested design; she left it up for her apprentice to deal with. Veili handed the young man a piece of parchment with the design: on the left shoulder, it’s a filled-in pitch black circle. Inside it are three silver crescent moons in a horizontal row, close together, almost touching. Were it not obvious, each moon represents one member of the team. 

The apprentice was unimpressed, too, but he was the sentimental sort and smiled at them all and told them it’d only take an afternoon. It’s such a simple job, he doesn’t even charge them for the silver pigment that makes the moons shimmer and shine in the light.

(Kurgan showed it off to Glimmer, of course, who in her usual way agreed it was cool but had plenty of ideas for how it could be cooler; more colors, more sparkles, maybe glow in the dark. Glimmer was sworn to secrecy to never tell Angella about this. Somehow... Kurgan got the feeling she would be grounded, even now. When Angella visited her in the infirmary (once and only once) after the Melancholy Meadows explosion, she seemed furious and despairing in equal measure. With a single line of dialogue; _"And what were you thinking? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could have died!"_ the physicians cleared out before the sparks could fly between Queen and Sergeant.)

“Well well well! Looks like your soulmarks came in,” Knutt said with a mischievous gleam in his eye when they were changing in the barracks for some reason or other. “Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but I always thought you three were something special. Soulmate special, eh?”

Soulmates. What a stupid old backwater cultural dreg from ancient Etherian days. Just a way to make arranged marriages look less obviously political and scheming. Nothing like the good old days of using your daughter as a pawn to get more land or peasants.

Kurgan was about to respond with ‘fuck off with that traditionalist nonsense, you whipped pup’ or something along those lines, but Veili threw an arm around Kurgan’s shoulder. “That sounds like the words of an envious heart,” she croons. “The young recruit who yearned for the Sergeant. I think I read that one, once.” 

Moske snorted. “At least with one girl you only need to remember one anniversary. Two birthdays, two gifts for the Moon Alignment Festival, two engagement exchanges… it’s a lot of work! I had to get a calendar!”

Knutt burst out laughing, canines glinting. At this point he’d only been on board for two years, but the unspoken verdict in the barracks was that he was all right. He had a little fan club among the serving girls in the castle, but he didn’t let it get to his head and he was a devoted boyfriend. He was damn good with a spear or halberd, too. What more could you ask for in a man?

  


* * *

  


That little aside had a point. Back to current time, current day:

Kurgan is pacing the floor of the barracks. Now, the Bright Moon barracks are like the rest of Bright Moon: big, ornate, lots of lanterns and mirrors and windows and bright colors. This means that if you’re pacing the floor of the barracks, it looks less like pacing and more like someone who keeps forgetting something and has to keep walking all the way to the far end of the structure to get it.

“This is a terrible idea,” Kurgan says.

Veili puts down the book she was reading. From the top bed of their bunk, she looks down at Kurgan as she stalks past with hands clasped behind her back. “It’s a diplomatic gathering, Kurgan.”

“In the middle of a war.”

“In the middle of a war, yes. In the middle of a war _and_ far away from any Horde outposts or staging areas. The Kingdom of Snows didn’t get touched even when the First Princess Alliance was around.”

Kurgan bites in the inside of her cheek. Veili has her there. But… “It’s not a full assault I’m worried about. Since Adora came around, the Force Captains have gotten a lot more creative. I’m thinking more a sniper shot from a handcannon, or poison, or a bomb, or gas, or…” Kurgan waves a hand. “Intrigue and subterfuge.”

Veili looks exasperated. “Kurgan, assassinations during the All-Princess Ball will bring the Kingdom of Snows down hard on the Horde.”

“Right. But even if they took out one princess? That’s one runestone that’s out of the fight until a new princess is chosen by the planet. And that could take...”

“But that one princesses’ kingdom will be dead set against the Horde. Deader set, even. Is... that a term? Well, it is now. The princesses' subjects would rise up to avenge her.”

“Or surrender,” Kurgan mutters darkly.

Veili hops down from the bunk and takes Kurgan by the shoulders. “You’ve been pacing for twenty whole minutes. Take it easy, okay? You're just getting more stressed.” She runs a calming hand through Kurgan's hair, fingers threading the ridge of the mohawk.

In spite of herself, Kurgan feels some tension ebb from her shoulders. “You were keeping time?”

“It takes you twenty seconds to get from one end to the other… so it was more like math. But!” She lifts a finger. “What you really need is to—”

“I _know_ I need to trust Glimmer and Bow and Adora on this. They’re not kids anymore.” She doesn’t say she needs to trust Angella, because Kurgan always trusts Angella. Always, always, always. Right? Even if Angella's judgment is sometimes—

So, anyway, that may have been what Veili wanted to say, too. But… “I was _going_ to say you need to find something else to do than pace and wait for Bow’s after-action reports.”

“Oh.” Kurgan looks sheepish, which is rare. Veili savors the portraiture. It doesn’t last long; Kurgan’s face soon shadows over with something devious.

  


* * *

  


“Plainclothes,” Kurgan says.

General Juliet doesn’t look up from the parchments on her desk. It all looks very important and very official and very bureaucratic. It looks like it can wait. “You have no invitations. Request denied.”

“Juliet, we don’t need to be inside the ball.” Veili and Moske glance at each other. Kurgan being on first-name basis with the General is still something they aren’t fully used to. That Kurgan is on first-name basis with Princess Glimmer and the _Queen_ is something they still can’t fully believe. “We just need to be near the approach to the castle, down in the city. Two squads, no more. If anything happens—”

“If anything happens, two squads of ununiformed Bright Moon soldiers are drawing live steel inside a neutral kingdom’s castle.” Juliet looks up, now. “Snow’s royal guard will be present. The princesses, who are all capable fighters, are present. She-Ra herself will be present.” She fixes Kurgan with a hard look. “Negotiations with Snows have been inconclusive for a decade. We cannot afford to jeopardize any movement toward an alliance.”

“If the Horde attacks—”

“Corporal Moske,” Juliet says coolly, “what is your opinion on the matter?”

Got to hand it to him, Moske only gave a slight start at being addressed, but he hid it by straightening his posture. “General.” He glances at Kurgan, who is still staring at Juliet. “Having sparred with—and trained with—She-Ra often, there’s no doubt she can take on a platoon of Horde troopers alone if they attacked. Adding in the other princesses and the guards…” He shrugs, his pauldrons shifting. “The inside of the palace isn’t well known to outsiders, either.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Juliet turns her gaze to Veili. “Corporal Veili, your opinion?”

Veili clears her throat and doesn’t look at Kurgan. “The Kingdom of Snows would make a formidable enemy for the Horde. The All-Princess Ball holds great cultural importance to the kingdoms, so not only would it earn the wrath of Snows, but of many across Etheria. Nobles and merchants who would otherwise stay out of the conflict might join—or contribute, at least.”

Juliet nods. “Convincing arguments, both of you.” She looks back at a dour Kurgan. “Do you wish to rebut, Sergeant?”

“No, clearly not.” She salutes sharply and turns and strides out of Juliet’s office. Veili and Moske glance at each other and share a sigh.

“You are dismissed,” Juliet says.

It doesn't take much searching. Veili and Moske find Kurgan in the fight yard punching the unliving shit out of a wooden dummy. Then pull ups, then push ups, then a lap, then back to the dummy.

"Hey, how about... Let’s give her some time,” Moske suggests.

“Yeah,” Veili murmurs, watching how Kurgan’s fists and elbows strike with more force than necessary.

About an hour later Kurgan is still going at it so they amble on over. The few other guards who felt like training have given her a wide berth. Kurgan has stripped out of her gambeson and tunic. She looks more like a prizefighter than a soldier, now, sweating and bruises already forming on her hands and forearms, knuckles skinned and bleeding, veins bulging, just in her sport-brassiere and breeches and boots. Veili tries not to let her eyes linger on the scattering of old scars that cover Kurgan like ominous birthmarks. Kurgan stops to catch her breath and turns around and looks at them. 

Veili hands Kurgan a canteen. She smiles placatingly. Kurgan doesn't smile, but her eyes soften just a little bit.

There’s a beat of silence. Moske goes first. “C’mon, Kurgan. Yeah, so I’m sorry, kinda, but the General was never gonna go for it.” He spreads his hands. "Or the Queen. Especially the Queen. She's very..." He chooses his words carefully, knowing Kurgan and Angella's oddly distant closeness. "... Considerate of the rules of war," he ends on.

Kurgan drinks from the canteen instead of responding.

Moske scratches at his beard. “… I’ll admit, it did feel bad not backing you up in there. But what were we gonna say? Realistically? Bright Moon and Snows already don’t have a great diplomatic relationship. Ambassadors got recalled when the First Princess Alliance went to shit, and they never reinstated them.” Look at Moske, Kurgan thinks, reading those textbooks. She's secretly proud of his self-taught ass.

“And we’d stand out,” Veili adds. “… You especially.” There's the undercurrent of a giggle in there.

Kurgan cocks her head, frowning. “Me, huh?”

“Yeah, no offense, Sarge," coming from Moske you can guess that it means the exact opposite, "but you scream ‘soldier’ loud and clear in every way possible. You stand straighter drunk than city folk do sober. People usually walk down the street, but you _march._ And whenever someone looks at you, you automatically stare them down. That's not great for spycraft.”

“And,” Veili adds yet again, “the tattoos.”

“What about them?”

“Moons, Kurgan.”

Kurgan squints down at her shoulder. It shines back up at her in the noon light.

“There’s only one tattoo-artisan known who uses that pigment of silver: ours. She’s… kind of famous.”

Funny, that. At the time, Kurgan thought that, yes, a tattoo would prevent any kind of undercover work. But at the time, Kurgan also thought that she’d never need to be undercover as a standard guard and soldier. What, was she going to sneak into a Horde outpost? Go undercover as a recruit at Zone F-1? Things really do bite you in the ass. But, if she—

Veili grabs at her wrist. “Kurgan. Kurgan, _no._ I can _hear_ what you’re thinking in there. You can’t just drop everything and go.”

“Is that so? I can’t visit Knutt’s hometown, with all of these vacation hours I’ve saved up?”

Moske laughs. “No, you can’t. Because we’d catch you before you got ten miles from the city gates. I'd shoot practice arrows at you until you got annoyed and gave up.”

Kurgan sighs and puts her hand over Veili’s. “To think I trained you two, and this is what I get,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Everything will be fine,” Veili says. “Nothing will go wrong at the Ball.”

That’s Veili. Always the optimist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much exposition, so I broke the chapter up.


	9. Death, the Hunter

Everything went wrong at the ball.

They got Glimmer.

They got Bow.

They got the fucking Sword of Protection.

Kurgan does something she hasn't done since she was seven years old: she screams into a pillow until her throat is raw.

She wants to storm up and down all of Bright Moon and roar and gnash her teeth like a nightmarish beast out of the Whispering Woods. She wants to gnaw the edge of her shield off and beat her sword against her cuirass until one shatters. She wants to fight. She wants to maim. She wants to kill. She wants to make things right again the only way she knows how.

Shadow Weaver had delivered her demands; Angella in exchange for Glimmer. By the time Kurgan received the news through Juliet, there was already talk of a rescue mission, approved by Angella in the course of mere hours. Something swells up in Kurgan's chest, something old but familiar…familial love, familial pride. Her mother defending her sister—no, that's not right, stop that. Her Queen defending her Princess. That’s it.

  


* * *

  


“Juliet,” Kurgan says, pacing the General's office. Juliet glances up. “She-Ra and the princesses are strong, but they can’t take the Zone. You can’t agree with this decision.”

“This is a rescue mission, not a direct assault,” Juliet corrects. “And, for your information, you’re being deployed.”

Kurgan’s brows rise—just for a moment. “Good,” she growls, maybe too fiercely. 

“However, She-Ra has final say on your—and our—involvement, due to her knowledge of Zone F-1. Therefore—”

Kurgan is already out of the office, running for the castle.

  


* * *

  


They're not in the council chamber—just Angella, anguished, looking like she's on the verge of tears. Kurgan peeks in for only a moment before quickly making her way farther down the east wing of the castle. She can't bear to see Angella like this.

Damn it. Where the fuck are they? How hard can it be to find—

Huh. There’s Glimmer’s room. Door’s open. From inside, Kurgan can recognize some voices…and that one voice is definitely Adora, sounding anxious and frustrated. She strides forward before she can rethink this. She stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene before her. That's... a lot of princesses (and one… sailor?). A lot of magic and politics in one room. Kurgan feels a little sick.

"Um, _excuse_ you?" An irritated voice breaks her reverie—the princess from Salineas. Mermista, Kurgan recalls.

A woman with purple hair and a flipped-up welding mask—Entrapta, princess of Dryl—perks up, putting a hand under her chin. "She just walked in! Interesting... It seems Bright Moon needs to update its _operational security_ ," she says pensively. 

Kurgan crushes her flaring annoyance down. Do not engage. She puts on her best official Rebellion business voice. "Apologies, your Highnesses," she intones with a deep nod—just respectful enough. "Adora. May I speak with you for a moment?"

Adora's eyes go wide. "Oh, Kurgan, um, we're kind of in the middle of—" She gestures at their improvised war table. AKA, the carpet of Glimmer's room and a miscellany of items acting as warboard pieces. Bottle of perfume, lipstick, and... a dagger? What?

"Yes, it's directly concerning that. And it's important." Without waiting for an answer, Kurgan leaves the room. There's talk behind her, but she doesn't care to listen.

Adora meets Kurgan in the corridor, looking apprehensive. There's a far-off look in her eyes.

"I have to go to the Zone with you. I have to help her. Glimmer is my—" Sister? Friend? One of the few people in court and castle who looked at her and saw a person instead of a pitiable charity case? "Glimmer means too much to me, Adora. Bow, too. After all these years with them, I have to go. Juliet has—"

She crosses her arms, shakes her head. "No, this is my fault. I let my—” She grimaces, starts again. “I can't risk anyone else. The less people in action, the better."

"Adora." Kurgan's voice sounds off. Flat. "The Sword of Protection is more important than me. She-Ra is more important than me. Glimmer is more important than me."

Adora opens and closes her mouth. "Don't say that," she says quietly.

"Glimmer can channel the Moonstone. Glimmer has magic. Glimmer is a _princess_. I'm just a normal person. If I could trade my life for Glimmer's, right now—"

"How can you _say_ that?"

"—I _would_ , because Glimmer is worth ten of me. More, probably." Kurgan sighs. "Juliet set it up, I have everything and everyone ready to move out down in the courtyard. Two squads, two war wagons. We stay outside the Zone walls. If something happens... we wreak havoc to give you more time and draw attention away. With all you princesses together... you can fight your way out if the whole Horde isn't focusing on you."

"It's a standard ingress-egress operation, Kurgan, if we maintain stealth—"

"A lot can happen. Changes of the guard. A soldier on a break. A view through a window, a stray sound..." Kurgan lifts her hands, palms up. "The Zone is a military installation, Adora, you know that. It's not like Bright Moon. You might have to face Catra and Shadow Weaver."

Adora stares down the colorfully patterned tiles of the corridor, her lips pursed. 

"You have to promise me," Adora presses, "that you'll be careful. That you won't breach the walls, no matter what. I can't—I can't lose anyone else." Adora grabs her hand in two of hers, holding tight enough to hurt. "Please. You have to live, or—what’ll I tell Glimmer?" She cracks a weak smile. 

Those words cause Kurgan to stop and blink at her. She looks... tired and determined and worried all at once. Her stupid hair poof is slightly deflated and misshapen. But, a request to be careful? Careful, of all things? Now that... that's a promise Kurgan can't keep. Not a chance.

"I promise you, Adora," Kurgan lies.

On the way back to the barracks, Kurgan passes the council chamber again. All these years... even if things are strained and strange now, even if Kurgan doesn't truly know where she stands in this family... she has to say her piece. If she’s on her way to the Zone… she’s probably not coming back. That’s just reality.

She pushes open the door. Angella looks up and smiles sadly. "Hello, Kurgan."

Kurgan has to fight a smile—consider the situation. After all these years, Angella still gets her name wrong thanks to her manner of speech. It sounds like 'Kur- _gan_ instead of ‘ _Kur_ -gan’ every time. Kurgan secretly loves it. She walks over to where Angella is sitting, suddenly feeling awkward, unsure of how close or how far to stand away from her Queen and surrogate… ‘mother.’

"I'm going with Adora to get Glimmer back," Kurgan states—gently, but in a tone with no room for doubt. 

Angella lifts her gaze to appraise her. "It's been twelve years since we marched on that dreadful Zone," she murmurs. "Twelve years since my foolishness cost me Micah."

"Cost _us_ Micah," Kurgan utters without thinking, eyes drawn to the sorcerer-king’s empty chair. She remembers that day too clearly. Angella looks at her again—like Kurgan is coming more into focus—and nods. "I never said it before—and I should say it now. Thank you, Angella. For... for everything."

Angella tilts her head, brow furrowing delicately. "And what ever are you thanking me for?"

"For taking me in when you didn't have to—a lowborn, angry orphan. For not handing me off to a barren noble. For—for being my—" Kurgan stops, struggling to find the words. "For raising Glimmer and me together. For not separating us."

"Kurgan," Angella says softly, reaching out with a crystalline wing and brushing her shoulder, "there was never a day in the past seventeen years I resented you. Not a single day I regretted bringing you into our family. Even if—even if I did not show it well, at times. You brought Glimmer and Micah and me so much joy."

 _She's saying that because you're going off to die._ That's all. Kurgan is rational enough to know how it is. But there's a feeling of wet heat behind her eyes. Angella rises from her chair and wraps her arms around her. It's a nostalgic feeling. It feels a little like home, whatever that is.

"Goodbye, Angella," Kurgan murmurs, hugging her back as tightly as her armor will allow. "I'll bring Glimmer back—or die trying."

Angella shakes her head. "I don't want to lose two daughters."

Kurgan blinks the wetness in her eyes away. "You won't," she says. She turns and leaves the council chamber without looking back.

  


* * *

  


So here's how they've set themselves up.

Indigo Squad:

Gauge  
Kurgan  
Veili  
Moske  
Yeltz  
Shima

Magenta Squad:

Kolle  
Noszler  
Knutt  
Herano  
Perjet  
Rivir

It's a simple scheme.

There are two war wagons, six-wheeled, the sides plated with steel armor, each pulled by two strong horses. Moske drives one; Rivir drives the other. There is a field ballistae loaded onto each wagon.

Each wagon is supplied with a large stack of incendiary bolts. Enough to burn a forest to the ground.

The rest follow on horseback, carrying bows in addition to their usual armament. Not crossbows, this time—too slow a rate of fire.

To be brief, the plan: the ballistae will fire upon the fortifications under construction outside of the Zone wall. The horse archers will eliminate any Horde troopers that attempt to investigate or counterattack. It will cause enough of a disturbance to get the Horde’s attention and pull their combat-ready units outside of the wall—and away from Glimmer’s prison.

That is... if Adora's plan doesn't work. If everything goes perfectly on the princesses' end, there will be no need for Indigo and Magenta to do anything.

And off they go, out of the Bright Moon castle gates. No one cheers or bothers to watch them go. After so many years at war, it's just a common occurrence. 

It takes days and days to get there; war wagons are bulky, clunky things and they have to be mindful that the ballistae don’t get damaged on the way. Once they get out of familiar green territory and into the badlands, that's when the idle chatter stops and they all start swiveling their heads, watching. The twelve of them move cautiously through the valleys and ridges of the high plateau, keeping themselves as concealed as possible. The signs they are close are obvious. At first comes the smog, rolling across the sky. It reflects the light of the Zone, casting everything in a bizarre yellow haze. Next, the smell; a bitterness faint and ghostly but undeniable, laying itself like a film on your tongue and inside your nose. And then, finally, the Zone itself comes into view; Kurgan and Veili and Moske can only stare at it, entranced. It is their first time seeing it—the source of Etheria's suffering and misery, monstrous and titanic, rising out of the earth. 

"You never get used to it," Kolle mutters.

As planned, by the time they reach their position at the southwest stretch of wall, it'll be the dead of night. They keep an eye out for patrol skiffs, but they don't see any—yet, anyway. There are four gates into the Zone—each for a cardinal direction. By taking the southwest section of wall, they'll have the most time to do damage before the defense detail shows up. 

The half-mile surrounding Zone F-1 had been seeded with landmines some time ago. Bright Moon found out the hard way—a good handful of mounted scouts went up in smoke in the first years of conflict. Kolle rides a few paces ahead, studying the earth as his horse trots forward. How he can spot landmines by moonlight alone no one's really sure, but he hasn't been blown up, so there's something to it.

They get within four hundred paces of the wall, riding within gulleys and passing behind dry berms and large stones. Indigo Squad heads left, Magenta Squad heads right. They're about fifty paces away from each other before they move fully into position—three hundred paces, easy range for a ballista—and begin setting up. They have decent cover and concealment, being in a small depression. Each squad cannot see each other from their positions, however; they will have to trust. 

Moske can see people outside the wall, wearing the bright neon green jumpsuits of a Zone penal laborer. They seem to be digging a new foundation for some new building or other. They only have hand tools—it seems the massive, piloted construction machines only get used within the Zone walls. Only a short ways away from the groundbreaking effort is a nascent building with only the ground floor and walls laid down, covered in scaffolding. As he watches, he can see the grey armor of Horde soldiers moving among the jumpsuits—overseers, he presumes, watching one strike a laborer with a baton crackling with green sparks.

Grunting with effort, Moske ratchets back the string of the ballista and loads the first bolt. Gauge reaches up and taps Moske's arm. He looks down from the wagon. "Aim for the piles of construction material and supplies," he whispers up, surveying the scene with a spyglass. "They'll be flammable."

Moske nods. "I'll fire a warning shot into that sheet metal shack. See it? Looks empty, and it'll make a lot of noise."

The look Moske gets from Gauge is withering. "No warning shot, Corporal. We need as many bolts loosed as effectively as possible before the skiffs come."

"Look at them. They're prisoners!" he hisses down. 

"If the alarm is raised inside, we need as much damn chaos as we can get out here," Gauge says harshly. "They'll get away from the fires."

"And if they don't?"

"Then their deaths are on the Horde's hands, Corporal. We can talk philosophy when we're home. Right now, I need you to focus. She-Ra, the Rebellion, _everyone_ needs you to focus."

Moske looks at Kurgan, who looks back at him blankly and turns away. He takes a deep breath. There’s no guarantee they'll be needed at all. Maybe they’ll just leave.

Ten minutes pass.

Twenty minutes pass.

Thirty minutes pass. 

There's the chance that the alarm doesn't get raised because they just end up caught, Veili thinks bleakly. They could be out here until morning, and then have to trundle back to Bright Moon and tell the Queen and everyone that all the princesses are—

"Hey." Kurgan rubs Veili's back. "Stop that. Help keep watch."

Veili looks at Kurgan gravely and nods. 

Forty five minutes pass.

This might work. Adora's plan might work, Kurgan dares to hope.

It's been an hour. Suddenly the Zone lights up in alarm and the whole world becomes misted red under the smog. The klaxons can be heard even from out here.

"Fuck," Moske muses. 

"Noszler is giving us the signal," Gauge barks, klaxon covering their voices. Moske can see the small hand mirror flashing at him. "Do it."

Moske tries not to think as he aims the ballista—one crank for vertical, the other for horizontal. He squints through the sighting device and sees those green jumpsuits in front of the supply crates, some rushing about, some standing still in the confusion.

He closes his eyes and looses the bolt. The energy from the limbs snapping back into place rocks the whole wagon and jars Moske so hard he bites his tongue.

When the bolt hits the construction site, it doesn't set it flame. It _explodes._

As Moske stares agape at his hellish handiwork, another explosion rocks the nearby build site. The newly-erected walls are blasted down as if they were paper, sending metal and concrete flying. Even from here Moske can see laborers falling down, shredded by the shrapnel. 

"Hey! Moske, wake up!" Someone shakes him; Moske glances over to see Shima with another incendiary bolt in his arms. Moske begins ratcheting again—faster. Shima loads it.

"Do you want me to shoot?" Shima asks urgently, gripping his shoulder. There's no insult, no judgment, no contempt; it's an honest question.

Another explosion, courtesy of Magenta Squad.

Moske shakes his head. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He aims. He looses—a storage outbuilding erupts into flame and a rain of molten metal. He can hear the screaming from here.

"Skiffs coming, west! Skiffs west!" Yeltz shouts. All but Moske mount up and ready their bows. 

"Keep firing until you're out of bolts," Gauge orders. Moske just nods without looking at him.

Two skiffs from the western gate swoop in, doing brief a pass of the fiery scene. Moske isn't looking, he's just ratcheting and loading another bolt. 

"They'll spot us on the next shot! Get ready!' Gauge calls out.

Moske fires. An improvised guard tower collapses, burning, crushing someone—he tears his gaze away. The skiffs immediately turn and begin bearing down on them. 

"Archers! Let’s go!"

The skiffs get within one hundred paces and they're already shooting. There's a green flash in Moske's periphery and he smells ozone. "Fuck," he shudders as she begins ratcheting again. 

The mounted archers begin a gallop away from the Zone, peeling away into two groups as the skiffs give chase. One pulls up to Yeltz and Shima and Veili—unwisely. The two gunners are filled with arrows, the pilot banking away but with a broadhead lodged in his leg. They watch as the skiff loses balance, scrapes against the earth and topples over, the momentum flinging the pilot to be dashed against the rocks.

Kurgan and Gauge are taking on the other skiff. Gauge manages to shoot down one gunner, but the other aims true with his handcannon—mostly. A bright green light flashes in front of Kurgan and she smells burnt meat; her horse's head and neck are gone, ionized. She has a half-moment to commend her horse for her service before she tumbles to the ground, rolling and bouncing.

The moment she stops moving she jumps to her feet, spitting dust. She sees her recurve bow, just a few paces from her headless horse—she snatches it up and looks around. Yeltz helped Gauge finally shoot down that skiff; Kurgan can see a sword flashing as Yeltz finishes off the pilot. Veili's horse canters up next to her and Kurgan hops on.

"Are you okay?"

Kurgan holds on as Veili spurs her horse forward. "Think so." She’s dizzy and her head hurts and the world is spinning still. Magenta Squad has been dealing with their own skiff problem (three of them, actually) but they appear to have it under control as far as she can tell.

When the archers of Indigo Squad return to the war wagon, Kurgan slides off the back of Veili’s horse and hops up onto the wagon bed. “I’ll help you load,” she says. Moske nods mutely, ratcheting the string back once more. Kurgan looks up to see another three skiffs emerging from the western side. “Shit. They’re waking up. It’s only going to be more from here on.” _Hurry, Adora._

“We’ll take them!” Gauge barks. 

And just as Kurgan loads the next bolt, all of them see a bright, tiny ball of blue light streaking straight up into the sky in the south. In the distance, a skiff is rapidly accelerating off into the badlands.

“That’s Bow,” Moske says, voice oddly guttural. “Signal trick arrow.” 

“That’s our cue!” Veili says.

The wagon shakes as Moske looses a bolt. It smashes into the hull of an incoming skiff and blows the bottom out of it and it skids into the earth, crumbling.

Kurgan looks over at Magenta Team again—they are still firing and loading with a practiced efficiency—until a blinding green beam hits the war wagon, blasting it apart and sending chunks of wood and horse and ballista everywhere. She searches the field—and there, from the south, a lone hovertank is slowly drifting towards them.

“Oh fuck,” Kurgan murmurs. “Oh… fuck.” You never get used to seeing that. She shakes her head. _Wake up._ “Forget the wagon. Moske, ride with Veili. I’ll ride with Gauge.” She’s on Gauge’s horse before she finishes the sentence.

“We’ll fight them in the ravines. They’ll crash or lose us,” Gauge says, watching as the two skiffs come closer. 

“What about Kolle’s team?” Veili asks, craning her neck to see them. Another plasma beam from the tank makes the ground quake.

“It’s Kolle! He’ll figure it out! We _ride!_ ” Gauge howls out.

They saddle up and push their horses to gallop.

  


* * *

  


Indigo Team is halfway back to Bright Moon before Magenta Team catches up. 

Or what’s left of them. 

Gauge has his squad stop and water the horses for a bit at a conveniently close babbling brook.

Kolle, Knutt, and Rivir bring up their spent horses at a trot. 

“Lieutenant Gauge,” Kolle says.

“Captain Kolle,” Gauge says. 

Herano was loading the ballista after Rivir got forced out by handcannon fire from the skiffs; the tank annihilated Herano with one beam. Noszler was obliterated by another tank beam as she was trying to draw the pursuing skiffs away from the group. Perjet got gunned down by a volley of handcannon fire as they were trying to lose them in the valleys and arches and chasms of the badlands. 

It’s a weird feeling, when your squad is fine thanks to luck and the other is cut in half thanks to chance. It makes you feel like you’re on the wrong page, wrong chapter, you missed something. Like you did something wrong.

There really isn’t much else to say. They all continue on to Bright Moon.

  


* * *

  


They were expecting some cheer and good spirits when they returned through the castle gates. Not a hero’s welcome, or anything. But… something, given that the mission was a success. Instead, castle Bright Moon has a sorrowful air to it. 

“Whatever happened,” Gauge declares firmly, “you all fought well. I want you to know that; don’t forget.”

They are all weary. Kolle heads on to Juliet’s office to prepare the death notifications for the next of kin of Noszler and Herano and Perjet. Veili and Moske head to the barracks to sleep for twelve hours. Shima already fell asleep under a tree. Knutt and Yeltz went drinking after checking in. Rivir’s… somewhere. Kurgan shucks off her armor and trudges up to the castle. Maybe Juliet knows what’s going on, but she doesn’t want to hear it from Juliet. 

She has this route memorized. She walks—more slowly. Her joints hurt. Her head hurts. Hit it too many times in the fall, maybe. Maybe—no, forget it. This is more important: the door to Glimmer’s room is closed… like it was when Kurgan left. 

She hopes. She knocks on the door. 

She waits.

The door opens and she is face to face with Bow. He looks dreadful—he’s lost weight, robbed of that baby fat he had in his cheeks. Being a prisoner of war of the Horde does that to you.

“Hey, Kurgan,” he says, only mustering maybe half of his usual vigor. He opens the door further. 

Glimmer is sitting there on her plush couch—pale, dark circles under her eyes, sniffling—but _there._ Adora is holding her; she looks up at Kurgan and smiles. It’s not a happy smile. Relieved, maybe. The Sword of Protection is propped up against the wall.

“You made it,” Adora says. The blue in her eyes has a kind of stillness. The look of someone trying to keep it together.

“I made a promise.” Kurgan is already across the room and kneeling at the side of the couch. “Hey, Glimmer.”

Glimmer throws her arms around Kurgan’s neck. 

Kurgan has to ask eventually. They all look so… haunted. “What happened?”

A sob jolts through Glimmer. “Entrapta’s dead.”

Kurgan exhales sharply. One less princess. One less kingdom. No one to work with First Ones technology. No one to reverse engineer Horde weaponry. “I’m sorry,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Suddenly Kurgan’s skin is searing. She grunts and recoils back, blinking at a strange glow. Glimmer is… flickering. She squeezes her eyes shut and grits her teeth as her entire body vibrates violently with unspent, overpressured magic. She holds her arms tight against her body, keeping herself together.

“And there’s that,” Glimmer groans as she flops over onto the couch cushions dejectedly. “I can’t use my magic.” Bow pats her back.

Kurgan sits there on the carpet, looking at them all. She buries her face in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm more about one-on-one duels than field battles, but you got to do it sometimes.


	10. Death, the Visitor

One morning after training, Adora stands awkwardly at the storage racks as Moske files their training weapons away. (You would think so given his laid-back demeanor, but Moske likes it when things are organized. Or, rather, he likes it when the things he likes are organized. His bed being made to regulation? Couldn’t care less. Weapons not organized by correct category? Travesty!) Moske glances back at her after returning his wooden greatsword to its rightful rack.

“What’s on your mind, Adora?”

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “Moske… you trust me, right?”

He slowly smiles. He hopes it comes off as a friendly smile, because to be honest, it was more of _‘shit, here comes the magical suicide pact’_ kind of smile. You know, the acknowledgement of the absurdity of your existence. Laughing at yourself rather than with yourself. “C’mon, of course I do.”

“Good! I mean, thanks. I mean… um.” She rubs at her arm. Moske is still trying to get over the Horde jacket. “You know how in the old stories of She-Ra, she can heal people?”

Moske wasn’t the best folklorist, but recent events have caused him to take these kinds of things a lot more seriously. “Yeah…”

“Would it be okay if… I healed you?”

He blinks. He glances down at the bruises of varying and vivid color spotting his arms and shoulders. Okay, he’s got a few scrapes and cuts, too, but… “I’m holding up, for now. But… hey, I appreciate you asking.” That’s not a lie. “You could check the infirmary? Or see if the physicians down in the city—”

“I can’t,” she says plaintively.

Moske lifts a hand in gestured offering. “Go on.”

Adora looks away, studying the weapon racks. “I… need to practice,” she says, embarrassed and ashamed all at once. 

Ah. Well. That explains it. Moske isn’t what you’d call the gambling type (that’s more Yeltz, really), but he’s not at all what you would call risk-averse. (You don’t join the Rebellion if you’re risk-averse. Or any kind of rebellion, really.) “Hey, as your sparring partner, I’m all about practice.” He takes a seat on a nearby bench an gestures to himself. 

Adora puts her hands together. “Thank you thank you thank you,” she rushes out.

Moske waves her off. “Hey, hey. I wasn’t kidding when I said I appreciated you asking me.” He lifts up his arms. “Do your thing! … Whatever it is.” 

Adora gives a wavering smile at his reassurance. From her back she draws the magic sword, declares the (literal) magic words, and She-Ra is standing before him, glowing and glorious. 

There’s a pause.

“… Ready when you are,” Moske says.

Adora is frowning. “I’m… not sure what to do.”

“Oh. Okay.” Moske looks down at his arms. He hopes he’ll still have them, after this. “Maybe try… channeling energy between your palms? Like this?” He claws his hands and holds them a foot apart in front of his face. Adora doesn’t look convinced. “Just a suggestion,” he adds mildly. 

She gives that one a go. After ten seconds of silence and concentration, Adora asks, “does it feel any different?”

Moske pokes at his bruises. “…Not really.”

Adora sighs.

“Good effort, though.”

Adora puts a hand to her head and groans. “Thanks.”

He keeps his tone casual. “Did something prompt this, or…?”

“What?” She scoffs, laughs a little too loudly. “No! Not at all. Just, you know, trying to be the best She-Ra I can be!”

“Riiight,” Moske says. He decides not to push it.

  


* * *

  


Kurgan is pacing back and forth across the room.

“You can’t tell Mom,” Glimmer says.

Ah, yes. Kurgan knows that tone. It’s not pleading—it’s halfway conspiratorial, halfway threatening. How they’d share secrets when they were younger, mutually understanding that betrayal would be punished many times over by the wronged sister. (How, exactly, was never really specified.) But this? This isn’t breaking royal curfew or sneaking out or using Glimmer’s magic to mess with people (mostly harmlessly!). 

“Glimmer, c’mon, this is your _magic,_ this isn’t—”

“I know!” Glimmer snaps. She wilts at Kurgan’s expression—flat and blank, but hiding hurt. “I know,” she says more softly. “But we _can_ fix this.”

Kurgan wants to trust Glimmer, she really does. But this is different than fighting under her command at Elberron those months ago; aggressive as she was in her military strategy, she was still intelligent and self-aware. Kurgan had no qualms about following her orders, or letting Bow’s or Veili’s and Moske’s lives (and potential deaths) get wrapped up in her battle plans. (The way Glimmer blanched at the blood was less inspiring; that hardness comes with time. An acquired taste, if you will.) But when it came to her majestic ego, her titanic pride, or her personal life—much less her _mother_ —trusting Glimmer’s judgment becomes… trying. A struggle. Difficult, in a word. Let’s go with difficult.

She decides to humor Glimmer. “Okay, so, _how_ exactly are we going to fix this?”

Glimmer spreads her hands theatrically and wiggles her fingers. Normally there’d be a little shower of sparkles to illustrate the point, but… you know. “She-Ra! She has healing powers, according to the legends. Combined with her connection to the runestones, it’ll be fine!”

Mythology and speculation. Great. Very reliable. 

“Remember the First Ones ruin we found, when we met Adora? She’s heading there to learn more about She-Ra’s powers. All we need to do is sit tight and not tell Mom anything.”

Kurgan bites the inside of her cheek. After Entrapta’s death and the current diplomatic strain between the princesses, Glimmer is desperate to not show any weakness, anything that might call her competence into question—by her vassals, by her subordinates, and especially by her mother. It’s foolish and selfish. It’s some Kurgan completely understands.

“I won’t tell her,” Kurgan gets out eventually. “But if this gets worse—”

“I know, Kurgan,” Glimmer says, pulling her into a hug. “Don’t worry.”

  


* * *

  


“Mind if I join you?”

Moske shrugs, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. He doesn’t turn around. “Make yourself at home.”

Gauge sits down next to him. The moons are bright tonight.

“Have you heard about the carriage conundrum?”

Moske has heard about it. But, being Moske, he always graciously helps a conversation along. “Been a while; remind me.” He hands the pipe to Gauge.

“Sure, sure. You’re standing in the street, minding your own business.” Gauge takes a measured, dignified hit. “Suddenly, out of nowhere, a runaway carriage comes barreling down the street, horses in a panic. You can see that five people are going to get trampled—unless you push a completely random passerby into the way of the horses, who will conveniently stop them.” He hands the pipe back. Moske takes a few seconds to react before taking it into his hands. “So do you push the person, or watch as five die?”

“Everyone pushes the person, Gauge.”

“Mmm… no. Not everyone.” He looks up at the moons. “For some people, it’s really hard, having death on their hands. Even if it saves lives.” He chuckles. “Because lives are too different. They don’t cancel each other out… a life for a life is never equal. There’s always something… lost, or unbalanced.”

Moske sighs.

“I didn’t order you to do an easy thing, Moske. I ordered you to do something hard, something _so hard_ that most people couldn’t do it, even if it was their families’ or friends’ lives on the line. _No one_ enlists with Bright Moon or the Rebellion thinking they’ll have to fire upon prisoners of war.”

“Then why,” Moske says, turning to look at Gauge with something flaring in his eyes, “didn’t you do it yourself?”

“Because you’re the best with the ballistae, and we needed the best,” Gauge answers simply.

Moske rises.

“I need to go for a walk,” he says, staring at the sky.

  


* * *

  


Now, the waiting game. That is, Kurgan waiting for Adora to come back and heal Glimmer.

You’d think it’s easy, just hanging out and waiting. The problem is that Angella isn’t clueless; she knows when something’s up with Glimmer. And when something’s up with Glimmer, Angella hovers. And when Angella hovers, Glimmer gets short-tempered. And when Glimmer gets short-tempered, Angella gets short-tempered. And then Kurgan is in the middle.

See where we’re going, here?

It’s an old family dynamic. Kurgan was always the messenger and mediator between two strong, stubborn personalities. Fifteen year old Kurgan (awkward, gangly, full of acne) was delivering messages to a petulant ten year old Glimmer who had cloistered herself in her room, thinking the ‘silent treatment’ was the height of getting back at her mother. 

Kurgan hated it then. She hates it now.

It’s a cool evening; the tea still steams in their cups well after being poured. They’re sitting on high balcony overlooking the courtyard, the waterfall descending before them. A table is strewn with reports from Juliet and requests that needed her queenly blessing; they’ve only just finished working through them. Technically Kurgan’s rank doesn’t allow her to be privy to this kind of information, but…

“Am I a bad mother?” Angella laments into the air, out of nowhere.

It’s hyperbolic and rhetorical and exasperated, but there’s an undercurrent of doubt in there.

“No,” Kurgan says firmly. She takes a sip of her tea. Still a little too light, for her taste.

Angella looks over to her and smiles. “You’re simply saying that to make your poor mother feel better.”

 _Your mother._ Angella was the one to cross that line, to reach out and bring Kurgan back in. The strike on Zone F-1 had made them both realize that any moment could be the last, and neither wanted to leave anything unsaid. Kurgan still doesn’t know why she drifted away, why she kept putting distance between Angella and Glimmer and that part of her life. (That’s not entirely true. Kurgan knows why; she doesn’t know _why._ )

(Funny, that. Kurgan never called Angella anything like ‘Mother’ or ‘Mom.’ She had always just been Angella, and Micah was just Micah. In front of nobles and ambassadors and dignitaries, yes, Kurgan would respectfully call her ‘Queen Mother,’ but that was just for the audience. But Angella and Micah always called her their daughter, without fail. The things you notice in retrospect.)

She shakes her head. “Wasn’t I this difficult at seventeen?”

Angella puts a pensive finger under an elegant chin. That used to be a source of neurosis, for Kurgan. No, not Angella’s literal chin. Just… how she looked nothing like Angella. “Oh, absolutely. Dare I say, unquestionably. It was simply your own flair of difficult.” She sips at her tea. She even makes that look regal.

Kurgan snorts. “But I grew out of it, in time.” About the same time the acne left.

“Well…”

Kurgan laughs. It feels odd, because it’s a real laugh.

It makes her wish Micah was here, to make everything work out. It makes her miss Micah so badly it makes her stop and stare up at his likeness in the council chamber mural and dwell on all the things she should have said to him.

_Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll remember. I won’t let you down._

  


* * *

  


Veili has known Kurgan for five years, now. Eat at the same table, sleep in the same bunkhouse, work the same patrols, train in the same yard. They cover each other in battle and bind each other’s wounds and keep each other from making fools of themselves when they’re drunk or blazed. By luck or coincidence they ended up being friends, in all that time. Really good friends. Really, really good friends. (Even if Kurgan has… odd ways of showing it.)

It’s already a challenge to hide secrets from friends. It’s harder when Veili is so freakishly observant.

So, this morning, Kurgan is sitting on her bunk, lacing up her boots (right, then left) to ready herself for the early shift. She didn’t drink last night (honest), and as such her mind is uncharacteristically clear and she’s certain she can take on anything.

She feels two gentle hands rest on her shoulders. She recognizes them, of course.

“You’re so tense,” Veili says. 

“I’m always tense.”

“Not like this.” Veili applies focused pressure with her fingers, pressing down through the thick textile layer of gambeson; to her, Kurgan’s strong shoulders feel unusually hard. Despite herself, Kurgan has to admit that it feels nice. Her eyes go half-lidded, for just a moment. She feels Veili’s weight join her on the mattress. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

Veili’s thumbs move under the gambeson collar to massage Kurgan’s neck, working out the knots. “ _Kur-gan._ ” It’s not admonishing, not really. It’s genuine concern, the kind that runs Kurgan straight through with guilt.

“It’s… classified information.”

“Hm, classified information.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Army composition, troop movement, supply lines…?”

“Something like that.”

Veili laughs. “I don’t think it is.”

“Would I tell you if you guessed right?” Kurgan asks dryly.

“You would.” Kurgan can hear the smile in her voice. “You always do.”

Damn. Kurgan heaves a sigh. “I promised someone I wouldn’t tell.”

Veili’s little massage stops. “Ah.”

Kurgan spins around to look at her, eyes narrowing. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

Veili gives a shrug. She looks bashful, for some reason. “After a week, it’s… hard to not notice.”

Anyone else might associate Glimmer’s sudden preference to walk everywhere and spats with her mother as a kind of petty rebellion against her ancestry or royal obligation, or something. But Veili’s detective skills go above ‘anyone else.’ Kurgan frowns. If she had just figured out a way to get Glimmer to talk to Angella…

“Did you tell Moske?”

“We… discussed it.”

Fuck. “Fuck.”

“Adora’s working on it, isn’t she?” Veili resumes kneading Kurgan’s shoulders; she slides her hands underneath the gambeson to reach Kurgan’s shoulders more easily. Her hands don’t develop calluses the way full humans’ do; something about that thin layer of peachfuzzy fur. “Try and calm down, okay? She hasn’t let us down yet.”

Kurgan wants to say something about Entrapta, but doesn’t.

“She did more than anyone could have, that night,” Veili says pointedly. Her ability to read Kurgan’s face is something that reaffirms the depth of their friendship. It’s also something that annoys the shit out of Kurgan. 

“I’m aware.” She lets her chin fall and rest against her chest. She feels Veili’s fingers start moving over her scalp, across the fuzz of her undercut, through her mohawk ridge. “Okay, okay,” she says, taking Veili’s hands. She’s sorry to stop, but… “You win. I’m relaxed.”

Veili smiles. “Good.”

Kurgan looks down at the palm of Veili’s left hand—where the scar from the old burn keeps the fur from growing back. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Veilli whispers.

_But it does,_ Kurgan thinks.

  


* * *

  


On the topic of waiting for things to happen, let’s talk about sleep. What better way is there to make time pass, than to be dead to the world and to return to the void?

But, you say, what about dreams?

Good point. 

Remember two weeks after Team Forlorn Hope’s first engagement with Horde troops at the Heartbreak Hills? How Kurgan had a really weird dream about that Horde scout—that woman she killed, with a dagger to the heart?

Kurgan remembers it. She remembers it because it’s a recurring dream, and it’s been recurring for three years.

Now Kurgan wouldn’t call it a recurring dream, because it’s always different, somehow. Let’s take, for example, the second dream, which happened, let’s say, two months (or three… or four?) after the first:

So, it was like this. Kurgan is lying comfortably on her back, somewhere in the Heartbreak Hills. She’s surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers, birds are singing. Warm sun shining on her face, cool breeze tousling her mohawk. She’s wearing her ‘casual’ getup—gambeson, tunic, breeches, boots—but she’s also wearing her cuirass for some reason. It’s not the most convenient thing to lounge in, but it works, for some reason. Dream logic. Or maybe it’s very supportive grass.

Then Kurgan sees her.

It’s the Horde scout. She’s walking towards Kurgan—slowly, leisurely, watching her. Like she’s enjoying the scene of it all, like she was committing this to memory so she could sit down and paint this later. She’s wearing the Horde base uniform, short sleeves and pants and boots. Eventually—it seems like a long time, though it couldn’t have been—the scout is standing over Kurgan, looking down at her, smirking like she knows something. She’s short for a soldier. Her skin is light from living under the sunless smog of the Zone. Birthmark under her eye. Her eyes are pale green. Had she ever noticed? Did she absorb all these things as the moment she tore off that helmet and was met with so much blood and gasping?

There are a few things Kurgan can say. ‘It’s you’ or ‘you’re supposed to be dead’ or ‘I killed you’ or ‘what’re you doing here?’ But none of them really suit the situation, Kurgan thinks.

“It’s your dream,” the scout says. “Why ask me?”

Her voice isn’t what Kurgan expects. Its pitch is a bit higher, for one. And the accent is… foreign, slightly musical. It’s a singing voice, not one meant for shouting orders on a battlefield.

Why doesn’t she know that voice? Shouldn’t she? She didn’t hear the scout speak, so obviously her mind is creating a voice to match her. But her mind can only create what she already knows, so why—

“You are the _least_ imaginative dreamer,” the scout says, hand on hip. The jagged scar on her throat is dark against the sky.

“I never was a dreamer to begin with,” Kurgan says, squinting up at her. 

“No? You have never dreamt of faraway places, of wild adventures, of lovers whose touch was perfect?”

Kurgan can’t rip her gaze from her. “No.” It feels inadequate; it needs to be justified. “No reason to dream about things that don’t matter.”

The scout’s lip quirks. “You would have been perfect in the Horde, yes,” she murmurs. It’s not exactly a compliment, given the tone. She stretches, sighs contentedly, and sits down next to Kurgan. Like clockwork— 

Kurgan tenses up.

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.” She pauses. “Unless you make me. It _is_ your dream. But I don’t want to, so I would like it if you didn’t make me.”

Irritation flickers through Kurgan. “If you keep saying this is a dream, I’ll wake up.”

“So you do want to keep me around, yes?” the scout says slyly.

“If I wake up, I’ll lose sleep. And you’ll cease to exist, so I think it’d be in your best interest for me to be asleep.”

The scout shrugs. “I’ll find a corner of your mind to wait in. You’ve accommodated me so far. Your brain is very… expansive, no?”

Kurgan glares at her.

“I did not say _empty,_ ” she clarifies. The scout reaches out and rests a hand on Kurgan’s cuirass. She doesn’t say anything; just looks at Kurgan with a raised brow. 

“I want it there.” Kurgan wants to move her hand but doesn’t want to move her hand.

“To protect yourself?”

“I’m used to it.”

The scout makes a sympathetic noise. “Sad, isn’t it?”

Kurgan tries to stare at her forehead instead of meeting those eyes, but her bangs get in the way. “No.”

A tilt of the head. “You like being a soldier?”

“You don’t?”

“No, it was like a slow death that I never knew the end of.” She taps rhythmically on the cuirass, nails clicking on steel. “I lost too many friends. I lost too much time.” She smiles ruefully at Kurgan. “And then I lost my life. I would not recommend soldiering to anyone.”

Kurgan bristles for a reason she can’t explain. “Sounds like you didn’t have what it took to survive.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Is having ‘what it takes’ to be a soldier worth what it takes away? Hm. I wonder.” Tap, tap, tap, tap. The foreign beat of a song Kurgan doesn’t know. “But some people love it, don’t they? Some people love war.”

“I don’t _love_ war.”

The scout gives her a long look. Kurgan meets it, somehow. “No? I hope not.”

They sit in silence and listen to the birds and wind through the grass. It’s like that for a while.

The scout turns to Kurgan again. “This was nice, despite how very strange you are. Let’s do it again, yes?”

Before she could say anything, Kurgan woke up. That was how the second dream went.

In the third dream, the scout doesn’t show up. Kurgan sits and waits and threads her fingers through the grass but she doesn’t show. She wakes up unsatisfied.

In the fourth dream, when Kurgan sees the scout walking toward her, she says it before she can help herself: “Where were you?”

The woman stops, blinking, and then smiles. She has a tiny gap between her front teeth. “Did you miss me so?”

“I was more interested in how my subconscious was going to torture me.”

The scout sits down cross-legged. “If I am a product of your subconscious,” she ponders, “what do I represent?”

Kurgan shrugs. “Nothing, maybe.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no.” She looks thoughtful. “Not guilt, not shame, not fear. I remember how you looked at me—you were so full of dedication. I was impressed.” She taps at Kurgan’s cuirass. “I was a little intimidated.”

Briefly, Kurgan imagines herself behind the scout’s eyes, watching a dead-eyed and cold and unknown Kurgan driving a dagger home. It’s unpleasant. She banishes the thought. “You’re pretty friendly to me for someone who was killed by your sworn enemy.”

“Sworn enemy?”

The realization comes, then, that Kurgan has been talking to a figment of someone part of the warmachine that destroyed her village, her family, her life—not just hers, but Veili’s, Moske’s, so many others. 

From nowhere, a dagger manifests in her fist.

The scout looks at it, then Kurgan. To her credit, she only looks a little afraid. She touches the spot, just under her right arm. Where that dagger had pierced through and found her heart.

“It didn’t hurt,” she says. There’s gratitude in those words, somewhere. 

The dagger vanishes. 

Kurgan woke up, sweating.

It is the fifth dream that fucks with Kurgan.

“What’s your name?” she asks the scout.

The scout looks at her, brow furrowed.

“This is my dream.” Kurgan leans forward. “Tell me your name.”

This time, it is Kurgan who is sitting. The scout was lying down, picking out shapes in the clouds before this. “You already know,” she says airily.

“I know your designation,” Kurgan says. She never forgot it, but she checked the after-action report file to be positive: a scout designated ‘1MM0R74L’ was killed in action during a reconnaissance mission. “I don’t know your name.”

The scout— _1MM0R74L_ — chews her lip. 

“Tell me. Now.”

At that, the scout looks a bit irked. “Only if you tell me yours.”

Kurgan’s mouth hangs open, just slightly. She scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You’re in my head. You know everything about me.”

“Not everything,” she reminds her, eyes trailing down her cuirass.

“Just shut up and tell me.”

The scout turns her face away, returning to studying the clouds above. “How will you know it is not a creation of your imagination?”

Kurgan doesn’t. “I’ll know.”

The scout scrutinizes her. She sighs, then claps her hands once.

They both stare at each other.

“…Ah,” the scout says, mortified. “Let me try again.”

She claps.

Kurgan woke up. Quite agitated, that time.

So that was the first five dreams. Kurgan was a ways into her twentieth year by the fifth one.

But that’s the past. Now, in the present, Kurgan is waiting patiently for Adora to return and heal Glimmer’s magical connection to the Moonstone so everything will be fine.

Kurgan keeps telling herself that. Everything will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome. Especially since this is weird story and I'm just running at full speed.


	11. Death, the Advocate

The sky rolls with black clouds, moving, always moving. You would be forgiven if you thought you were looking at an upside-down ocean in a storm.

Red lightning lances the earth from above.

Veili looks up. She can feel warm static in the air; her fur, even as short as it is, stands on end. There’s a faint buzzing in her ears, a humming along her bones that makes her teeth feel odd and alive in her mouth. 

They say every living thing born on Etheria is attuned, on some level or other, to magic as we know it. Even people like Veili, without a half-grain of sorcerous potential in her body, can feel it on some level. But this? Something like this—she didn’t need a lifetime of training in Mystacor to know that there is a great and dangerous power at work here.

And, to her own surprise, she is not afraid.

If anything, she kind of expected something like this to happen eventually. The return of a mythological hero figure from a thousand years ago meant that things were going to get interesting. And when ‘normal’ in your world consists of magic and runestones and stuff like that, well, what do you expect ‘interesting’ to be if not downright cataclysmic? Catastrophic? 

Veili strides back into the barracks, brushing past her fellow guards who are staring blankly up at the sky, mouths hanging open.

Adora had returned, finally, with Glimmer and Bow. Veili assumed the three would just play it cool and act like Glimmer was never conspicuously not using her magic, but instead, they brought tidings of the 

Whispering Woods going grey.

They hadn’t needed to tell anyone at Bright Moon. The soldiers and citizens alike saw it for themselves; the colors of the forest, the lush greens and deep browns, the wild vividness of the flowers… fading away right before their eyes, becoming a dull and lifeless monochrome. It hurt her eyes to look at it, made perspective and distance hard to gauge. Veili couldn’t help but look down at her hands to make sure her hues weren’t ebbing away, either.

But it wasn’t the sudden colorless that Adora and Glimmer and Bow were most alarmed about. They had intel—somehow—that the Horde was going to march on castle Bright Moon. The greying of the forest, apparently, meant that the innate magic of the land had lost its effect; the woods would not shift to confuse or summon beasts to protect itself. The tangling vines and poisonous thorns and quicksand hidden beneath moss would… just stop, frozen in time.

It took days and days to get the war wagons and two squads through the woods to Zone F-1. Skiffs and hovertanks and troop transports won’t take that long, she thinks bleakly. They have a week, at most.

Veili finds herself in the armory. She always keeps her swords and daggers sharp, sure. But she sits at the whetstones and hones and hones and hones. Hones until each edge is polished to a mirror and can cut a hair in half lengthwise.

This is real.

  


* * *

  


Know what time it is? It is time to fortify.

Castle Bright Moon lies at the eastern edge of the city, and the Moonstone itself rests upon its pillar on the eastern side of the castle. Apparently in ancient times—before there was even a castle—there was a cultural understanding at the Moonstone was associated with the east, with the daymoon’s rise. The lack of a wall in front of the Moonstone, it was said, was to prevent any interference, astrologically or meteorologically or whatever. Moske, not being what you would call ‘magically gifted,’ has no way of determining if this is true or not. (He still calls the daymoon the ‘sun’—an old habit from growing up rural.)

But having no wall in front of your most important asset is still a tactical nightmare, tradition and magic be damned.

Moske is moving back and forth atop the battlements without stopping, tending to the ropes and pulleys and winches, helping lower down pieces and parts of the emplaced ballistae that usually act as perimeter defense. They’ll be rebuilt on the eastern edge of the castle, in the shadow of the Moonstone. Down at the armory workshop they’re already moving the components needed to assemble the mangonels, teams of horses straining to bring wagonloads of massive steel spheres—mangonel ammo—into position for loading. (The old stones thrown by old catapults didn’t cut it against hovertanks; steel was an upgrade, if horrendously heavy. Small cranes are required to help load each steel ball onto the mangonel’s launching arm.)

The quarter-mile approach to the castle has been laid with traps; caltrops for footsoldiers, ropes and steel wire tied taut between trees to unbalance skiffs, a number of deep pitfalls dug to interfere with the hovering of the tanks. It won’t slow them down long, not at all; part of it is psychological, really. Just enough to make them think about what they’re up against. 

There was animated if brief talk of building a sort of protective cage around the Moonstone itself. The idea did not go far; it was quickly understood that even thick crucible steel would melt after only a few hits from the tanks’ main plasma cannons, and worse, the cage might interfere with the Queen’s magic or cause her harm from shrapnel or spalling. 

A blood-crimson arc of lightning erupts in the sky directly above Moske—close, too close. Magic reverbs and courses through the air, through him—he gasps for air but can’t breathe. He sees things beautiful and wondrous and horrific and terrifying beyond anything he has ever dreamed, he communes with beings older than time itself, he is flying and deep underwater at the same time, he is living forever and dying forever and seeing through the eyes and hearing through the ears of every person to have ever lived, he is—

“-oske! Moske! Hey!” 

Moske clutches at his chest as air returns to him, blinking the dancing spots from his vision. He has a headache all of a sudden. Shima is crouching next to him, grabbing his shoulder. 

“You good? You okay?” he asks.

Moske blinks and eventually remembers to nod. “Yeah, I… did you… Shima, did you _see that?_ That was… that was…”

Shima’s mouth twists. “Didn’t get it as bad as you. It went off right above where you were standing.” But he has a haunted look in his eyes, that faint reflection of electric red.

  


* * *

  


The division of troops is straightforward as it can be. The Queen, the princesses, and the royal guard will defend the Moonstone. The elite squads of the Bright Moon army would join them. A handful of knights—a rare sight now less rare since the Horde’s attack on the Snow Palace—arrived and pledged their assistance, invoking the oaths of their great-great-great grandparents. The exact name and history of each noble house isn’t really known, but they’re martially competent, at least, doing nothing but training for jousts and tourneys and going on hunts.

The city itself? Well… about that.

News went out about the impending attack, and the people living nearby and potentially in the Horde’s path have fled for safety within the walls of Bright Moon city. The walls are definitely reassuring; fifty feet high, twenty feet thick, crenellated, the merlons made with embrasures to accommodate bowmen or crossbowmen. Evenly emplaced upon the walls are defensive ballistae—usually more for decoration than application, as one can see from the state of the cordage—ready to repel any enemy. 

Thing is, all of this was designed to defend against an Etherian enemy with Etherian technology. Not a mysterious foe with plasma weapons, bombs, and floating tanks. 

The remainder of the Bright Moon army is deployed to guard the walls, assisted by the city guard. Ordinarily the rivalry between the city guard and the soldiers of the castle guard makes cooperation an annoyance; the city guard look down on the castle guard for not taking on real criminals, the castle guard looks down on the city guard for not knowing real combat… you get the idea. But in dire cases such as this, even the surly Sheriff Floros of the watch listens to General Juliet’s battle plans with rapt attention.

Even if a siege was coming, there was no reason to levy the common people to fight; they would be disorganized, undisciplined, and be shredded by Horde weaponry anyway. The order was given out in every plaza and corner; when hostilities begin, remain indoors and bunker down and don’t come out until it’s all over. 

(You’ll know when it’s over.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one. It's gonna get heated, next chapter.


	12. Death, the Collector

Before anything else… let’s talk about a distinction. There’s terror, and there’s horror.

You know those words well. (Don’t lie and say you don’t.) Both are varieties of fear, right? But they’re different, and often confused or mixed up or misused altogether.

 _Terror_ is the suspenseful, dread-filled wait for the bad thing to happen. The lit fuse.

 _Horror_ is the abject, anguished state of knowing the bad thing happened. The crater.

So you understand, now, that for an entire week the city of Bright Moon is gripped with utter and choking terror. The kind of terror that keeps you awake and makes your appetite disappear and leaves you staring at the wall. The kind that makes drunks sober and children silent and gamblers cinched. This shining capital has not undergone a siege in centuries; not during the First Princess Alliance, not even once during the Horde’s military presence on Etheria. The idea of enemy soldiers marching on their flowers and flagstones isn’t one the citizens of Bright Moon can really grasp—and so it becomes all the more terrible. 

There’s a rush on the marketplaces of all city quarters, as merchants and traders have stopped coming through the gates once word got out about the impending assault. Flour and grain and dried food goes first—then everything else. (The city watch keeps a close eye to stop price gouging.) But aside from that… the wide boulevards and plazas and garden parks are deserted, eerily quiet. The black clouds and red lightning doesn’t help make things look any less grim. 

Kurgan walks the whole wall of the city, gauntlets smartly clasped behind her back. It takes a damn long time, but she does it—studying the terrain of the approach, scrutinizing if any parts of the wall seem particularly vulnerable. To the credit of the masons and architects, all seems to be in order (as far as Kurgan can tell). She has a sheen of sweat on her brow, feels sweat dampening her tunic under her gambeson and cuirass. The air is… unpleasantly warm and dry from the sheer amount of energy at play. She’s never been to a desert, but… this is what she assumes it’s like. Without the apocalyptic weather, anyway.

“The south gate,” Kurgan shouts over the wind to Gauge and Kolle when she finally completes her circuit. “That’s where they’re going to hit us.”

General Juliet has already briefed the Bright Moon army—the majority of the army that would be on the walls instead of at the Moonstone, that is. Her instructions were simple: do everything possible to keep the Horde from breaching the gates. If they get through, they’ll have a secondary route of attack to the Moonstone by storming up the highroad to the castle. The Bright Moon navy is already posted on the northern shore, but that’s just a precaution; Horde ships would have no element of surprise. Juliet herself will be at the Moonstone. The garrison watched silently when she turned to leave them and walked up the highroad. 

Gauge nods. “Seems that way.”

Each gate now has an array of ballistae and mangonels readied upon their ramparts, already ranged in for defensive use. Soldiers with heavy crossbows pace the battlements, waiting. 

It could be today or tomorrow or the next day. No one knows. Hard to say if knowing would make the wait more bearable. 

Kurgan descends the walls with practiced steps and makes her way to the barracks. She nods to the soldiers she passes, giving a clap on the shoulder to the younger ones with more apprehension in their eyes. 

You’d almost think—

In the barracks, she opens her footlocker and pulls out a brush and some wax. She tests the bristles with her thumb.

She sits on her bunk, rolls her neck ( _crick-crack_ ), and proceeds to calmly shine her boots. She can’t remember a time when she felt this at peace.

  


* * *

  


It’s the next day.

Hard to tell, given the clouds blocking out the light of the daymoon. 

Bright Moon scouts come barreling in like meteorites out of the grey of the Whispering Woods, reporting Horde mechanized cavalry units inbound—here within hours. 

Never before would you see Bright Moon so flurried with activity, even at the height of the Moon Alignment Festival! All around you, movement and noise. Citizens hurriedly ducking into any open door, the castle guard bursting forth from the barracks in varied states of armament, the city watch yelling over the din and trying to direct people safely, hundreds of soldiers dashing up the wall’s stairs and ladders to man the parapets, the cavalry setting up in formation in the square. The massive gates close, the portcullises fall, and the great lockbars are slammed into place. It’s all very climactic. It’s the kind of thing you’d want to see but not experience firsthand. 

But Kurgan isn’t there to see it. She is striding through the castle corridors, ignoring the servants and staff who jostle past her in their panic. The flashes of crimson lightning above cast bizarre shadows through the stained glass and nightmarish shapes crawl along the walls and floors, but her gaze is straight ahead. She soon finds herself in the resplendent antechamber before the Moonstone pillar. Even from here, she can see that slight movement far off among the trees of the Whispers.

And standing there watching the scene below, serene yet unyielding, is Angella. Kurgan takes a deep breath and steadies herself. 

Kurgan walks up to Angella her as the Queen turns at her bootfalls. Before she can speak, Kurgan hugs Angella swiftly, tightly.

"I won't let them reach you," she murmurs to her mother. 

Angella’s arms settle around Kurgan’s armored shoulders, and Kurgan fights the spike of nostalgic emotion that rises. “Oh, I never had any doubt,” she says, looking down at her with a gentle smile. “Be safe.”

Kurgan lets her go. She realizes, now, that they are not alone in the antechamber. 

Adora and Glimmer and Bow are there, ready for battle. They all look determined, strong, resolved, no trace of fear in their eyes. The armor upon them lies there like it was always meant to.

Glimmer is holding Micah’s staff. Kurgan blinks a few times. She feels an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. Oh, that's right. Pride.

“Finally grew into it,” Kurgan says, just lightly enough to save face.

Her sister grins at her and pulls her into a hug, and like an unstoppable chain reaction then Bow is hugging her and Adora is hugging her and they’re all in a team hug and it’s very odd to Kurgan but it feels right. 

“You always said it looked stupid.”

Kurgan scoffs. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did—we’re not doing this,” Kurgan mutters at Bow and Adora’s constrained laughter. “I’ve got to get into position. I’d say good luck, but—” She looks at them intently, then shrugs. “When have you ever needed it?”

Bow crosses his arms, smirking. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment…”

“Wouldn’t say that.” Kurgan turns on her heel and heads for the antechamber exit.

  


* * *

  


They wait. And wait. And wait.

And wait.

Veili giggles.

Kurgan glances over at her, frowning.

"I was just—I was just thinking," she says. "About if you had gone to the Ball, at the Kingdom of Snows."

There's a beat a silence. "What?"

"Just imagining you in that dress, that's all."

That dress? The forest-green velvet halterneck Glimmer bought her for her promotion to Sergeant? Seriously? This is what they're talking about, sitting behind the parapets, sweating and tired, passing a canteen of lukewarm water back and forth? Kurgan looks at Veili a bit more closely—and sees her hands shaking, just slightly. "Nerves?"

Veili lets out an unsteady breath. "Yeah. Nerves."

Kurgan reaches out and squeezes her gloved hand—once, then pulls back. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”

“Yeah,” Veili says. “Yeah.”

  


* * *

  


"Shima?"

Shima lifts his head and looks at Moske from across the mangonel. "Hm?"

Moske's voice is unusually tentative. "What did you see? In... the lightning, I mean."

Shima is quiet for a while, looking into the distance, watching for Horde troops.

Then, he turns his dark eyes on Moske, and he swears he could see the faintest spark of red within. "My death."

  


* * *

  


The Horde troops emerge from the treeline near the main road at two hundred paces and all hell breaks loose. 

There’s a lot of them. Infantry with handcannons and mortars and pavises, in the cover of the trees, firing upon the defenders on the wall with startling accuracy. The air begins to stink of ozone as the green beams streak overhead or slam into the merlons of the battlements, sending up sprays of smoke and stone and mortar. The Bright Moon soldiers turn their heavy crossbows and longbows to the trees and loose arrows and bolts; not en masse, but picking out movement and individual targets. From the top of a fifty-foot wall, it’s not hard.

“Hold, ballistae! Hold, mangonels! Wait for my signal!” Gauge roars over the wind and plasma crackling the air. 

A squadron of skiffs swoop in, peeling off in pairs, their gunners firing on the defensive emplacements. A plasma beam zips over Moske’s head, and his shoulders hunch. 

“Sharpshooters, take out those pilots!” Moske hears Kolle thunder out. And like clockwork, Moske can see the best shots of the army stand up like summoned spirits and aim and fire and three skiffs crash into the earth. The gunners, scrambling for cover, are easily picked off.

Side by side Kurgan and Veili provide a hail of crossbow bolts, one firing while the other reloads with a cranequin. Veili’s hands do not shake. Her aim is true.

This back-and-forth continues for a time. It is impossible to say who is trading better; for every Horde soldier Veili sees fall she sees a defender on their side tumble and lie still. One of the mangonels takes a direct hit from a mortar, blasting apart and sending soldiers diving to dodge shrapnel. More skiffs arrive—

“Lead your shots, just like in training! Ballistae, fire at will!” Gauge roars.

And the bolts come down like steel rain and skiffs start exploding and going down in flames, pilots and gunners falling, screaming, on fire, ripping the armor from their bodies but the incendiary payload already burning straight through them.

It doesn’t deter the Horde troopers; more skiffs move in, if faster, swerving more sharply. The strategy becomes painfully obvious—and dread settles in the defenders. 

“They’re trying to knock out our machines to clear the way for their tanks!” Kolle shouts again and again, running up and down the battlements so everyone can hear him over the mayhem. He didn’t need to—everyone knew, by now.

The Horde troopers dug in at the treeline have ranged in their mortars and are hitting the top of the wall consistently. Veili glances to the side and sees defenders without arms or legs being dragged away by other soldiers to be replaced by fresh sharpshooters.

They have no choice, now.

“Ready the cavalry! We sally out to meet them! Ballistae, mangonels, cover them!”

Moske loads another explosive bolt into his ballista. The loud clanking of the portcullis being ratcheted up rattles Veili’s teeth. The great lockbar is pulled back, the mighty gates open—

And the Bright Moon cavalry are out in a flood of flashing steel and dust, galloping down the main road as the gates close behind. Plasma beams from the treeline cut into them, but they don’t falter—the ballistae and mangonels launch upon the Horde entrenchments all at once, and the treeline goes up in flames.

Everyone scrambles to reload; all of the defenders’ machines are empty. The sharpshooters pick up the slack. Even if some of the Horde skiffs noticed the sudden cease in fire, the cavalry archers have them occupied. There’s a cautious boost in morale as the Bright Moon riders weave in and out of the Horde infantry, hacking them down.

Until a massive green explosion rumbles the earth, sending trees and dirt and riders and horse and troopers alike flying.

And down the main road to Bright Moon city comes a hover tank, its approach eerily quiet.

“All machines, on that fucking tank! I want it _dead_ and above my fucking mantle!”

Moske isn’t sure if it’s Gauge or Kolle that gives the order because he’s ratcheting the ballista faster than he’s ever done. His muscles are screaming and sweat is pouring down his sides but he can’t stop.

The Horde infantry are pulling back, leaving the skiffs to occupy the defenders on the wall. Another ballista goes up green ionized flames. 

“Sharpshooters, on those pilots!”

Easier said than done as a plasma blast rocks the entire wall—Veili watches as a soldier tumbles backward off the rampart. Two hundred paces away, all can see the tank charging up another shot.

“All machines, the tank!”

Incendiary bolts and steel spheres smash into the hull of the tank; a flame springs out, then another, and then the cannon overloads and the vehicle explodes. A wild, frantic cheer goes up—only for two more tanks to quietly hover over the wreckage of the first. 

The walls quakes again. 

They’re gunning for the gate. It’s mostly dense, thick wood, reinforced with steel; it was meant to hold off battering rams, not streams of superheated ions. They’ll get through.

“All machines—!”

Another quake, drowning out Kolle. Kurgan is already up, pulling Veili with her. Dazed with a combat high, Veili stumbles after Kurgan as she runs along the ramparts to the mangonels. Shima shouts something but it’s lost in the noise. Moske looks up at her, confused. Confused and… she knows that look, so rare in Moske’s golden eyes: fear.

Kurgan picks up an incendiary canister meant for a mangonel—the another. “Bring all you can,” she orders him and she’s off descending the stairs. Without ado, Veili picks one up, Shima picks up two, and Moske balances three as they follow as quickly as they can.

They get to the ground and see Kurgan running for the gate—the thirty-foot high gate now burning, splintering, warping. Kurgan places the munitions at the left base of the archway. It all comes together; the rest place theirs.

“Get more!” Kurgan shouts harshly. They take off. Kurgan nearly falls as another plasma cannon shot strikes the gate; the heat from it scalds her. Her ears are ringing painfully. “Fuck!”

They come back and stack more. Will it be enough? “More!” she screams at them, and they run off again.

Another shot. Kurgan falls to her knees, clutching at her ears. She can’t hear. She shakes her head and gets up just as they come with more explosives. The gate is barely holding together… this will have to do.

“Get up there and tell everyone to get clear of the gate! Signal me when ready!”

Veili and Moske, once more, haul ass back up to the ramparts. Shima, however, stays with Kurgan.

“You ready for this?” he asks. She can’t hear, but she sees his lips move. She nods. Another shot hits the gate and they’re both knocked off their feet. As they rise, they see a single javelin stab perfectly into the road just behind them.

That’s a signal if there ever was one.

Kurgan pulls out her firesteel and looks for the fuse—

Her heart goes cold.

She doesn’t have a fuse. Shima has the same stricken look on his face as the green fire licks at the gates. 

“Do you believe in fate, Kurgan?” Shima shouts at her.

Kurgan just stares.

“Neither did I!” he snatches the firesteel from her hand, and with a strength she didn’t know he had, physically picks her up and throws her—sending her sprawling and rolling well along the road, off onto the grassy bank. Kurgan shakes her head and looks up— 

And sees the hovertank ramming through the remnants of the gate—

And Shima sparking the stack of munitions—

And suddenly there is only heat and pain and darkness and—

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [And that marks the end of Season 1.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyVrPeMG2G8)
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	13. Life, the Betrayer

You don’t need to look at a map or spin a desk globe to know that Etheria’s a big place. Continents, oceans, mountains, valleys, on and on and on with the geography terms. But sometimes you forget about the rest of the world when you’re dwelling on your own very specific problems. Sometimes you forget that, yeah, every single person trapped on that planet with you is living out a fully realized story, with love and betrayal and character arcs and symbolic events and whatever else you’d expect if you sat down at an opera in Snows or picked up a well-worn (and salted) novel off the dock in Salineas. It’s not a moral failing, or anything. How many millions of people are on that floating rock? You’ve only got so much empathy and compassion to give.

So let’s go somewhere else, just for now. Different place, mostly same time. How about it? Don’t mind the sudden change in humidity and elevation; you’ll get used to it soon enough.

"Hey! Hey, Einhel!"

She gives a start and Einhel bangs her head hard on the splintered crankshaft she was welding back together. It creaked a bit from the impact; it also left a little indentation at the crest of her forehead. "Ow. Damn." Yeah, that’ll be a hell of a bump by tonight. (Hopefully she won’t have any reason to need to wear her helmet for a while.) She rolls out from underneath the hovertank, gingerly massaging her skull. She ends up getting motor oil in her hair from her workgloves, and this oil always stands out against the white. "Double damn."

“Sorry!” Kyle frowns and makes a sympathetic noise. "Ouch, looks like that one hurt. You want me to run and get you an chillpack, or... ?"

Einhel lifts a hand and shakes her head—which makes the pain worse, but oh well. "No, no... but thanks, Kyle. I'll live. Kind of." She lifts her goggles and squints up at him, silhouetted by the too-bright floodlights that dominate the high gantries of the hangar. "What's going on?"

"Message came down from Catra. It's for you." He holds out a communicator pad. 

Force Captain Catra, Einhel's brain automatically corrects before her brows can even rise. But then again, Kyle and Catra have history—same cadre and all, barracks-mates, trained and sweated and bled together. (Betrayed by Adora, together. Them and Lonnie and Rogelio... abandoned, together. She can't imagine...) She takes the communicator and reads the glowing text message:

 _Whatever you're doing, drop it  
Right now  
Get your stuff and go to the lab  
Right now  
You're working on robots now  
>:3_

Einhel stares at the message. She turns to look disappointedly at the long line of hovertanks in need of repair. (She had been on a good workflow. An average of three tanks fixed per day, four when she was really on a roll.) She turns back to look at Kyle, who shrugs. She isn't sure what the weird symbol thing at the end is (some kind of security measure or cryptographic encoding?), but... she's being reassigned, now? Just like that? She reads it twice. Three times. Doesn’t impart any new information no matter how much she stares at it. Kyle shuffles his feet awkwardly, waves to a passing engineer. 

"When did she send this?"

Kyle perks up. "She just handed it off to me in the corridor ten minutes ago."

"Okay, so, um... you know the Force Captain, right?"

An odd mix of emotions play over Kyle's face; pride, sadness, nostalgia. "...Sure do!"

"So if she says 'right now,' that means I have... how long to get there?"

Kyle scratches the back of his head. "Rounding down to be safe... how about, uh, twenty minutes?"

Einhel flails upward to her feet (Kyle is confused and impressed), runs over to her shared workstation and starts throwing everything of use into a standard issue Horde duffel bag—tools, manuals, protective equipment, everything. “Okay. Okay. Thanks, Kyle—if you see her, tell her—I’ll be there!”

  


* * *

  


The main installation of Zone FR16H7 is a big place. So when Einhel gets all her shit together and hauls ass through the corridors to the lab in fifteen minutes, you should know that’s actually something of an accomplishment. (Especially since the ‘lab’ was a retrofitted side chamber that had previously served as a prison cell. She tries not to think on that part to much.)

Einhel stops before the doors, catching her breath, wiping her brow (now free of oil), fixing her hair, straightening her uniform. She looks… as good as one can for having re-pieced tanks together for the last eight hours, she hopes. So she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin and with a sureness she doesn’t feel strides into the lab.

Einhel stands at attention, heels of her boots clicking together. "Strike Trooper Einhel, reporting for reassignment, Force Captain." Einhel's voice sounds pitched too high to her own ears. She fights back a wince. Her composure falters when her eyes land on Force Captain Catra. 

She had only ever seen the Force Captain at a distance—speaking curtly with Scorpia or Octavia or whoever else, walking purposefully through the corridors or along the catwalks, standing upon a high ledge or spire and surveying her domain below—but never this close. And ten yards is… close. It’s not just the unsettling contrast of one eye azure, one eye amber. It’s because now Einhel can see that she’s got three or four inches on Catra, just how _young_ she is, and she recalls that if Catra was part of Adora and Kyle’s cadre, Einhel must be a year or two older than her. And yet the felid woman standing there before her has an undeniable intensity to her, as if every muscle is contracted and flexed all at once and at the slightest provocation she could explode into violence precise yet unpredictable. 

__

__

Einhel sweats. She feels so rigid she must be vibrating.

Catra sighs and waves a claw. "At ease," she drawls. Her voice is like steel and sandpaper. Einhel fights goosebumps. 

“Strike Trooper Kyle relayed your message to me and—”

"Yeah, I can see that." Catra pads closer, putting a sharp nail under Einhel's chin. She narrows those unsettling eyes. "Wait. You were at the Battle of Brightmoon, weren't you?"

That battle has a name already? That was fast. "I... affirmative, Force Captain." Her heartbeat kicks up. One of Catra’s ears twitch. Wait—oh, fuck, can Catra hear her _heartbeart?_

"Part of the main frontal assault for the Moonstone."

"Affirmative, Force Captain. First squadron of the first armored cavalry regiment." A careful pause. "It was an honor to fight alongside you, Force Captain."

Those all-consuming eyes bore into her. The ears flick low. Einhel feels her palms prickle with sweat as she quickly reviews everything she did during the battle. Had she failed, somehow? Catra was on the front line with her—did she think Einhel retreated too early, or didn't fight hard enough? Or… or did she—

"Stop that," Catra says irritably. "You stink."

Einhel blinks.

"Your sweat—ugh, it _reeks_ when you're nervous. Try deodorant instead of motor oil." Catra turns on her heel and saunters out of the lab—but stops at the door. "I remember you, now," she calls over her shoulder. "You fought well. Do everything Entrapta says and there might be a promotion in it for you."

The doors seals shut behind her. Einhel lets out a huge, shaky breath. It’s only then she realizes that someone else has been in the lab the entire time.

  


* * *

  


"Interesting," Entrapta says.

That's usually Einhel's cue to duck and cover for an explosion or a laser ricocheting off the walls. But this time, it's just Entrapta admiring a good soldering job on a circuit board.

Working for a renowned princess is, unexpectedly, not all that bad. (Einhel isn’t really sure how or why Entrapta joined the Horde. She doesn’t dare ask. It’s probably best not to. After seeing what she can do with the Black Garnet...) Knowing of the expanse of her work in Dryl, Einhel expected Entrapta to be a humorless and strict taskmaster. Instead, the princess is... odd and well-meaning and good-natured, mostly. 

"Yeah, sure," Entrapta says out of nowhere, struggling to organize a nest of wires and finding her fingers stuck.

Einhel looks up from a schematic. "Sorry... what?"

Entrapta doesn't stop unraveling and re-raveling. It's a big old yarnball of wire. "Yesterday you asked if we needed to double the servo load on that fast bot. This is me answering: yeah, sure."

It's mostly stuff like that. But like any other language, you spend enough time around someone, you figure out how they tick. Entrapta doesn’t yell at Einhel; she just _yells_ in general, and after those first few days of snapping to attention at raised volume, Einhel just nods along. Or another example, Einhel wasn't sure when Entrapta slept, at first—until she found her unconscious in a corner, then in a chair, then in the scuttled hull of a robot, all at random times. Einhel would report for duty in the morning only to find that Entrapta has been working all night and was passed out in an empty artillery shell.

So now Einhel has a bedroll—safely tucked away in a spot far from wires, motors, plasma generators, similar dangers—and has learned to drop what she's doing and take a nap whenever Entrapta does. Even if that means waking up, getting ten minutes of work done, then Entrapta yawning and saying "productive day!" before she falls snoring into unshakable slumber. There's a similar theme with food; Entrapta eats whenever she remembers to eat. More often than not it's Einhel reminding Entrapta to eat. Reminding her that thinking burns calories and unsteady hands made mistakes is all it really took to put Entrapta on a sort-of schedule. Einhel doesn’t have to remind Entrapta to take showers regularly, at least; having prehensile hair _that long_ generally makes it unavoidable. 

(Einhel has even gotten used to Emily, and Emily to Einhel. She never thought she’d have what you could call a _friendship_ with a robot, but they bond pretty quickly over both having to deal with Entrapta. The princess refers to them as ‘Eimhelly’ when she’s exhausted and becoming delirious.)

It's better than reporting to Strike Sergeant Loclosz every end of shift. Now that she's gone so many days without being yelled at, Einhel is really starting to like this assignment.

  


* * *

  


Entrapta says they're moving their projects to a new lab. More space, more outlets, better wiring. Einhel is happy to hear it. She's gotten attached to their usual workspace, but for two people and a multitude of robots, it's... cramped. And not safe. Like, at all. They’ve both almost been crushed, bisected, electrocuted, or ionized multiple times. (Einhel’s never gone through workgloves this fast before.)

Einhel follows behind Entrapta in the corridors, carrying a crate of components. They’ve been walking for a bit, and Einhel doesn’t really recognize this part of the installation, but… whatever, Entrapta hasn’t led her astray yet. They appear to have reached their destination; the princess punches in a code and opens the large doors for her. Einhel walks three steps into the expanse of the new lab before she drops her crate and gasps.

This isn't another lab, it's the Horde Commander's fucking sanctum. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

And the Horde Commander is standing _right fucking there._ He's leaning over an operating table, working on... something, based on the blue sparks flying into the air. He's massive—seven feet tall, maybe, definitely taller than the taurus troopers she knows.

At a complete loss and in a panic, Einhel stands fast at attention, heels of her boots clicking together. She salutes rigidly. "Horde Commander, sir! Strike Trooper Einhel reporting for duty, sir!"

The Commander slowly turns at her voice—like an alloy pillar rotating. His mouth is a thin, flat line. He raises a salt-white eyebrow. Or, rather, the muscles above his eye socket rise. He... doesn't have eyebrows. She is pinned by the pure red of his gaze. "Entrapta, explain yourself. I do not recall requesting the presence of _infantry_ —this is the last place I would need them.” His gaze locks upon Einhel. “I am occupied with work far beyond your comprehension—and far beyond your value as a soldier. _What is the meaning of this?_ "

Einhel can only stand there stiffly with her arms at her sides. "Sir, I—I—"

"Oh, she's my—" Entrapta makes a few vague hand motions. "Well, she's sort of a volunteer, and sort of an intern, and sort of an understudy, and if you feel fancy she's sort of an apprentice!"

"We have no need of her. See that she leaves."

Entrapta crosses her arms. Einhel has never seen her look… stern. "Hordak, even geniuses need analog assistance. Einhel has a foundational understanding of robotics, which is a standard deviation more than what the median engineers here have and an _order of magnitude_ more than what Catra and Scorpia know. Besides, we can't be everywhere at once!" She rubs at her chin. "Well, if you want to be technical--"

"That is enough." The Horde Commander— _Hordak?_ Is that a _nickname_ or something?—turns back to his work. "Listen closely; I will not repeat myself. You are to retrieve tools we request. You are to obtain tools not present that we require. You are to touch the machinery _only_ with our explicit permission and oversight." He stops his work for a moment. "If you fail me you will be removed," he says, as if an afterthought. He resumes.

Einhel is still frozen to the spot. The blood in her veins won’t thaw. Entrapta pats her on the head with her hair... appendage... thing. "He's just in a mood. Anyway! Where were we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we're doing this.


	14. Death, the Healer

The Whispering Woods is kind of like having a dragon for a neighbor. (Dragons are extinct, but just work with the comparison here.) It’s just always there, you’re always used to it, and then one day someone screams and runs and says “holy shit, you have a dragon for a neighbor!” and you have to stop and squint and remember, oh yeah, that’s not normal for most people. And then you get a little defensive about it, saying stuff like “it’s not that bad” or “what’s the big deal” and trying to make it out like _they’re_ the ones being unreasonable. 

Because to anyone else, deciding to live near the Whispers is a lot like deciding to live in the shadow of an active volcano or on a fault line. Dangerous, unpredictable, no clear benefits, low resale value. But they don’t get it. When you live there long enough, you just _get_ it. 

See, look at it like this. People are alive. Animals are alive. Plants are alive. And then the Whispering Woods is alive… but it’s a different kind of alive. Not in the ‘are viruses technically alive or not’ way. (For your information, yes, the physicians and scientists and scholars of Etheria fully accept germ theory.) The Whispers are alive in a more… metaphysical sense. Alive and _aware._

So this means that when a child gets lost in the Whispers, they end up where they started pretty quickly, maybe muddy and cold but still running into the arms of a relieved and shushing parent. When a worrying alchemist is struggling to find the rare reagents for a life-saving medicine, the specific plant or moss or fungus they were searching for will appear right before they give up. When two yearning lovers longing for each other are among those trees, the paths and vines and stones tend to bring them together. When a hateful, murderous, abusive person passes through…

… They often don’t come out. 

So, sure, someone might think a dragon as a neighbor is madness. But that’s because they haven’t considered the benefits. They carry off cattle and can curse you with a glance and can _generate laser beams from their mouths,_ but you know what? No one ever, ever fucks with you.

And now, the color is returning to the Whispering Woods. The browns and greens and blues and reds and yellows, the colors in the leaves and petals and fruit more vivid than cut jewels, colors that glow ethereal in the moonlight. 

“Machines, load!”

Moske slots another bolt onto the track of the ballista. He grasps the cranks and begins turning the oversized crossbow until the crosshairs are over an approaching Horde quadrobot. 

He fires. The bolt flies true and crushes through the bot’s body, ripping with it some vital circuitry out the other side. The bot takes a few stunned steps before its lights flicker out and it collapses to the leafcover of the forest floor. 

(Hit the space between the armor plates. Lucky shot.)

As that robot hits the ground, two more are ready to take its place, stepping over their fallen warrior with the alloy coolness only automatons can manage. Moske takes a steadying breath as he begins ratcheting back the string on the ballista. Out of the corner of his eye he can see another moving closer, its legs awkward on this hostile terrain yet purposeful. Moske reaches for his bow—

A javelin sails overhead and buries itself in the sensor array of the robot, and it immediately turns and begins marching in the wrong direction. 

Moske looks back at Veili. “Thanks!” he calls out. Veili can only nod before she’s off again, racing to support another part of the combat line, pulling another javelin from her back.

After the Battle of Bright Moon, the Black Garnet’s chokehold on the other runestones was broken and magic flowed as it did before. And with that, the Whispers have begun growing back into the usual state. But not fast enough to prevent a battalion of robots from pushing forward and entangling the Bright Moon army in a deadlock of attrition. The soldiers and warmachines are well into in the fray—halberdiers and arbalists holding the line as teams with axes and warhammers course forward to smash joints and servos. 

Gain one pace one day? Lose ten paces the next day.

Gain a hundred paces one day? Lose one pace the next day.

Gain ten paces one day? Lose a hundred paces the next day.

Aside from the occasional scout they haven’t spotted a live Horde operative since this onslaught started two weeks ago. You can’t demoralize robots, they don’t have a supply line to disrupt, they don’t have to eat or sleep, they don’t have water you can poison, they don’t have grudges against commanding officers to exploit.

But they die like anything else, Veili thinks to herself as she watches one of her javelins arc through the air and pierce an approaching robot’s central processor. 

“Rally! To me!” comes out a great howl.

Veili turns to see Sir Sethlen and his retinue bounding forward over the moss and stones, shouting courtly insults as he hacks down the limbs of a quadrobot with his greatsword. Oil spills over him like black blood and his laughter echoes throughout the woods.

Well… if robots can be countered by one thing, it’s the hubris and irrationality of the living.

  


* * *

  


By nightfall, the robots fall back. Their main sensors rely on the visual spectrum of light, same as the living. That, and the Whispering Woods becomes far more dangerous at night to those it does not want to host. 

The soldiers on the line have often heard the terrible shrieks and roars of creatures cornering a hapless wayward robot in the darkness. 

At sunrise tomorrow, it'll start all over again.

“Ah… what a glorious day!” proclaims Sethlen, removing his full helm and shaking out his braids as he approaches one of the campfires—the clank of his sabatons turns all attention towards him. “There is such _substance_ in defending one’s kingdom. I may very well retire from jousts entirely—for how can only compare a target shield to a robot?” He nudges one of his entourage—they share a knowing laugh. A few Bright Moon soldiers chuckle politely. 

Veili keeps herself from rolling her eyes, somehow. Sir Sethlen of House Far Comet is… a lot of things, but he’s a welcome addition. He arrived without warning in the days before the siege of Bright Moon, knelt before the Queen, and swore his fealty to Bright Moon and She-Ra without any great fanfare. At any other time the exact political and social implications of a knight’s loyalties would give pause, but when a guy with a big sword and his twenty friends show up to fight for you, you don’t ask questions. 

Sethlen is about an inch taller than Kurgan.

She'd hate that, Veili thinks with a sad little smile.

The little smile becomes a little frown when she notices that Moske hasn’t said anything in a while. (That’s very un-Moske-like behavior, you know by now.) It’s because Moske isn’t even at the fire with her.

Farther off, beyond the heat and comfort of the flames and camaraderie, there’s Moske, leaning against a half-grey, half-brown tree, staring deep into the void of the Whispering Woods. Veili walks over to him and stands there. They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. 

Veili reaches down and slowly unfurls Moske's clenched fist, one finger at a time. It’s slow going. His nails have left red grooves in his wide palms. 

He exhales. "Sorry," he says.

She shakes her head. "Don't be."

They stand there a bit longer, letting silence and darkness speak for them.

  


* * *

  


We need to go back:

She wakes. If she could scream, she would, for the pain is worse than anything she has ever known; this is pain itself. But she can't scream, can’t move, can’t breathe. She is trapped within this prison of ruined flesh and bone as it slowly collapses around her.

In front of her, a glow. Light she can see even without sight.

From within her dying, rotting shell, she fixes She-Ra with a single bloodshot and boiled and blind and terrible eye.

"Leave me," Kurgan rattles out in a horrid rasping hiss.

But then a hand rests softly upon her chest, over her heart, and Kurgan feels—

It all fades.

  


* * *

  


Her world is emptiness and when it isn't empty it's full of pain. When the pain exhausts her, consciousness slips away. In due time, the pain wakes her. This repeats over and over and over again.

And over again.

She cannot see. Her limbs are leaden. She cannot feel anything on her skin—the first layer must be burnt, the nerves dead. But the pain runs deeper.

Time means nothing, here. Kurgan doesn't know when she's awake or when she's asleep.

But she can sense... movement. Presences.

One stands over her, silent. Then Kurgan feels something—something faint; the brush of a wing against her shoulder. Even through the bandages, she knows that wing.

She feels lips press to her forehead. She feels something wet drip onto her brow.

Kurgan wants to say something, anything—

_I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you._

She pours every ounce of willpower into those cracked bones, those withered muscles—but nothing happens. She remains still but for her breathing. For Angella, that will have to be enough.

Time passes. And with time comes another presence.

"Hey, Kurgan." 

Another voice is odd to hear. Physicians check her constantly, ask her if she can hear them every day. But this is different.

This is Knutt.

"I probably shouldn't be here. They're not allowing visitors—too many wounded. They called up as many physicians from the city they could, and some healers from Plumeria showed up too." He chortles. "They brought the good stuff. I'm getting a contact high just passing them in the hall."

There's a pause. 

"Aerie came by the barracks." Knutt sounds like he's tugging at his gloves—a nervous habit Kurgan often criticized for being _unprofessional_ in her harsher days. "She... wanted to see me. To see that I was alive. She wanted to see my wounds." He makes an amused noise. "She didn't... want to get back together, or anything. I don’t know if… yeah. But she felt like she had to know. And I was glad to see her and miserable at the same time. She... made sure not to touch me. Would've been too much, for the both of us. By the old gods... when she looked up at me, it made me wish I died back there."

_Don't say that. Don't you dare say that to me._

"Looks like I should have rehearsed. I... look. Kurgan, do me a favor and don't die, alright?" Kurgan could laugh at his tone—honest and worried and flippant all at once. "I like having you around. And I'm only saying this because you won't remember, but... I always looked up to you. Not when it came to _everything—_ " Kurgan wants to laugh again— "but... in general. And I know I'm not the only one."

_You should've chosen a better role model. It says something when your inspiration is laid out like a corpse in front of you._

"So that's all I had to say. I'll see you around, alright?" He walks away from the bedside. His tail brushes her foot on the way out. It's extremely painful, but Kurgan treasures the gesture.

Time passes. 

"Yo, Kurgan... looking pretty roughed up, there. Night out on the town?"

From the sheer amount of air that moves when this particular presence does... she knows who it is.

"We—you—I—" Moske clears his throat. He voice is thick. "That was a good move, at the gate. Veili and I got some flash burns, and I had to be on crutches for a few days from the fall, but we're doing fine." He chuckles. "My beard got torched, though. I feel like I'm thirteen again."

Silence. 

"It's pretty obvious to you by now, but we won the battle. Your little trick worked. Shima—" He stops. Starts again. "Horde's pushing their scouting robots through the Whispers, but we're holding them off. The woods are growing fast. Makes sense, 'cause, you know, magic."

Silence.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you can hear me," Moske says. "I'll visit you soon. You want anything?" No response. "Cool. Don't go anywhere, got it, Sarge?"

And with that, he leaves.

Time passes.

Kurgan knows who it is well before they reach the bedside; that determined gait, those short strides.

The hand on her arm. The hand Kurgan had held tightly as Glimmer was learning to walk. The hand Kurgan had to let go of, so Glimmer could stand on her own.

"...Hi, Kurgan," she whispers, small and tentative. Then she starts crying.

_It's okay, Glimmer. You're strong. You don't need me anymore. You can let go._

"You fucking bitch," Glimmer sobs. She shakes her head (Kurgan can feel the flutter of sparkles, that light buzz even through deadened skin). "Always having to play the hero, huh? Always the sacrifice?"

... Wait. Sparkles? That means—

"My magic came back," she says. "You... you and Bow were right. I should have told Mom."

_If I was in your place, I wouldn't have. It's okay._

Glimmer cries some more. Kurgan lets her. Just like old times.

She leaves, but only after firmly promising to get the more senior healers to look after her. Apparently they aren't changing Kurgan's bandages to Glimmer's liking. _And when did you become a physician?_ Kurgan wants to say dryly.

Time passes.

Another presence. It just... stands there, for a while.

Then it leans over and laces its fingers with hers.

Oh. She knows that hand.

Veili begins to carefully stroke her face, her head. Kurgan's scalp has the rough beginnings of stubble, now, poking up through the peeling and discolored skin. 

She can feel Veili's breath on her face, warm. Kurgan's heartbeat calms, her breathing evens. There is pain, of course. But for now, it is bearable. She will carry it without complaint.

"Come back," Veili whispers in her ear.

_I can't promise you that. But I'll try._

When Veili leaves her she sleeps for a long time.

How long? Who knows?

Well, however you want to look at it, a lot of time passes. Or so Kurgan thinks.

Kurgan wakes up—she doesn't remember falling asleep—and realizes that someone is yet again at her bedside. She didn't think she was this popular.

They stand there for a very long time. 

Whoever they are, they eventually lean down and snap their fingers a few times in front of Kurgan's face. Anger cuts straight through the pain. _Who the fuck?_

"Ah, come now, come now. I had to check. You don't want to lie there forever, no?"

Kurgan's blood freezes in her veins. She's not awake. She's asleep. She has to be.

"This is... very bad. I'm going to try my best," the Horde scout says. "But you have to try too, yes? Trust me, this once."

_How can I trust you?_

A hand rests over the bandages covering her chest—her heart. "Ah, but tell me. Have I done you wrong, yet?"

The hand is warm and familiar yet alien.

The scout claps her hands once.


	15. Death, the Ally

Kurgan opens her eyes. She is blinded by daylight. She closes them—only to become too aware of a choking sensation. 

The infirmary attendant jumps nearly a foot in the air and whirls around in time to see Kurgan weakly clawing at the feeding tube protruding from her throat.

By the time they get the length of tube fully out of her (brilliant, really; a hollowed-out vine of a certain hypoallergenic Plumerian plant) and Kurgan stops retching, the head physician, Doctor Unther—looking tired and bored and irritated all at once—shows up to deal with the racket. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Unther greets tonelessly as she pulls out the notes filed next to the bedside table. That tightly-bound braid has more silver than red in it these days and her laugh lines (well… frown lines) are slightly more apparent, but otherwise she’s hasn’t aged an hour in the last decade. Impressive, given the nerve-fraying pressure of her work. With surgically precise fingers defiant of time itself she withdraws a reservoir pen from a pocket and begins recording the time and date on a new page.

(Unther and Kurgan go way back. Ancient history. When Glimmer was about seven and first figuring out the extent of her powers, Kurgan was often on the receiving end. A teleportation attempt that left them too high above the ground; Kurgan pulled Glimmer close and took the brunt of the fall. Glimmer gesticulated wildly in her annoyance; magic flared from her fingers and Kurgan was flat on her back, blinking and smelling smoke as Glimmer panicked. The examples go on and on, but the point here is that it was Unther who would have to put Kurgan back together… clavicle, ulna, radius, tibia, fibula… so many fractured bones, and Kurgan would never allow herself to fully mend before being out and about yet again. Unther tried to lock Kurgan in a guestroom to keep her from straining her leg, once; Kurgan objected, saying it was a mere hairline fracture. Glimmer teleported her free soon after.) 

(As a child, Kurgan felt that Unther didn’t really like her. As an adult, Kurgan knows that Unther doesn’t really like her. This may or may not be related to the fact that Unther doesn’t really like anyone.)

(Well, that’s not true. Unther likes Moske, because everyone likes Moske. And Unther liked Micah, because… Micah was a good guy. He recognized her talent to begin with.)

Long story short: Kurgan's been out for a whole week. Whole body covered in burns, but no burns to the bone thanks to her armor; she'd probably be dead if she hadn't been wearing it. Some shrapnel from the explosion winged her, but no damage to important arteries or organs. (Again, the armor was a good investment. She doesn’t see it near the cot; now she’s wondering where it is.) While unconscious, Kurgan had been responsive to sound, mumbled in her sleep, reacted to acute pressure on her skin, and her pupils had still dilated. For all the trouble, it wasn’t really a coma. She was basically dozing damn hard for seven days.

"The concussive force from the explosion, compounded with the burn injuries, would’ve been the death of you from the complications—euthanasia seemed the kindest option.” So close to freedom, Kurgan thinks dimly. “Thankfully, She-Ra was here to help heal the worst of your injuries." The physician flips through her notes. It’s a lot more pages than Kurgan expected. "Your pulse did fall to very low resting rates, and you would occasionally stop breathing a minute at a time." Unther gestures at her as if she’s a particularly lucky hand of cards. “But here you are.”

_Great,_ Kurgan tries to grunt. But it comes out as a short, hoarse "Graugh..." instead. 

"Yes, that'll take time," Unther notes dryly. "Don’t overdo it. Your left eye ruptured from the heat. It goes beyond modern medicine, but... She-Ra's powers caused it to reform. How is your vision?"

Kurgan blinks, and looks around the infirmary—or tries to; the privacy curtain is drawn closed. So instead she lets her gaze drift from Dr. Unther, to the anxious-looking attendant, to the wall... this is definitely Bright Moon, for even the medical wing is artful and elegant and vividly colorful (somehow) without falling fully into gaudy. Kurgan shrugs. It hurts to do so. Then again, everything hurts.

"Well, I'll take that over blindness," Unther mutters, jotting down a few words in her compact shorthand. "Most people can’t move after an explosion and a week bedridden, but most people don’t get She-Ra accelerated therapy. We'll try to see if you can drink liquids later." She shoots an exasperated look at the attendant, who wrings her hands and looks down guiltily. "If not, the tube goes back in."

Obviously, Kurgan drinks that water like a damned hydration expert when the attendant finally hands the cup to her (she grips it with both trembling hands). Like hell that fucking root or whatever is going back down her throat.

It's a combination of things—the quality of the salves and poultices and bandages, the attentiveness of the physicians, the consistency of the calorie and fluid replacement, She-Ra's healing powers (mostly this… almost entirely this), Kurgan's tendency to tense up while asleep—she finds herself stiff and sore and aching, sure, and in pain—but she can _move._ By nightfall, she's standing on her own. She shouldn’t be able to—her muscles should be far too atrophied—but she’s standing. 

Just standing, though… and barely. Kurgan's arms shake as she braces against the cot and wall for support. She cannot hold herself up for long, and with gritted teeth she allows herself to sink back down onto the mattress. Fuck, it hurts to _sit on a bed._

(Is this what a miracle is? Is this what those legends from thousands of years ago spoke of, when they praised Mara so breathlessly? Magic that can bring back the dead? Make the blind see, the deaf hear, the burnt feel? Magic that commands life itself to do its bidding?)

The next morning she can speak. Her first words:

"Don't... tell... _anyone._ "

It sounds mostly like tortured air, but those are undeniably words. Doctor Unther looks down at her wearily. What's wrong with her? Doesn't she understand? Kurgan elaborates to drive the point home.

" _They_... can't... see _me_ like... _this._ "

The physician sighs, points at her with the pen. "The Queen requested that—"

" _Not_... even... Angella."

Unther quirks an eyebrow. The peculiarity of the familial tie between Kurgan and the Bright Moon royal bloodline is very much known, obviously, but... Kurgan's casualness with the Queen's name throws off some of the older staff, still. And Unther’s by-the-books about certain things. "Are you giving me an order, Kurgan?"

Kurgan holds her gaze with that disturbing left eye.

(The eye came back... different. Changed. The iris was still brown, undoubtedly, brown as the day Kurgan was born. But it was such a wondrously darker, deeper, richer brown—as if it were new, as if it had not seen quite so much banality as the other, as if it had only looked upon magnificent works and momentous events. As if a painter had touched up an old museum piece and in their awe forgotten the rest.)

Unther heaves yet another sigh. "Two days. Then, I tell the Queen. If you go dead to the world in the meantime…" She leaves the promise hanging there as she draws the curtain aside and leaves.

By the end of that night, Kurgan can walk a full ten feet without stopping to catch her breath.

  


* * *

  


Bathing takes on a new definition, because now it's less “getting clean” and more "painstakingly scouring dead skin while avoiding scabs." Kurgan told the infirmary attendant she didn't need help getting her back; the assistant seemed relieved at the news. Hot water burns, cold water aches; it takes longer than Kurgan likes to get the temperature bearable. The mildest soap they have stings like hell, but she grits her teeth. Kurgan refuses to smell like the decomposing dead.

Afterward, Kurgan looks at herself in the bathing-chamber mirror, wiping condensation from the glass. 

It's not good.

Her muscles are far too defined, her veins bulging, her fat reserves taxed. (She was at nineteen or twenty percent bodyfat to begin with—enough for when the rations run out when they’re afield.) The soft lines of her cheekbones and jaw have emerged, contouring her face into something unfamiliar. Her breasts are slightly smaller. Her knees and elbows seem too large for her body, now, her hipbones jutting. Her skin is pale and waxy where it is not burnt. 

She looks like she rolled off of a funeral pyre and crawled out of a crypt in the same weekend. Then again, she sort of did.

Fifteen pounds, Unther says. Kurgan has to check the scale herself. (That she can walk to the scale on her own is something she is sure to show off to Unther.)

She hasn't been this light since she was seventeen. (Moske's sheer size made her take the training yard's weight room much more seriously.) It looks... wrong, to so easily see the tendons moving in the back of her hands and the insides of her wrists. Guess the difference between a soldiering one-hundred-and-sixty and a bedbound one-hundred-and-forty-five really gets highlighted when it happens overnight (in perspective, anyway).

It tires her out to brush her fucking teeth. (And those teeth sure did they need it. They got yellow pretty quick.)

Reversing this will take time.

  


* * *

  


It’s the third evening since Kurgan has woken up.

She can talk, sit, stand, walk, eat, make it to the toilet, bathe herself. She’s weak and exhausted. By Unther’s standards? She’s perfectly good for discharge. 

“If you’re not going to be in that cot, someone else can use it,” Unther says that night, not looking up from her notes on another patient. “You have a bunk in the barracks.”

She’s not wrong.

When Kurgan slowly walks into the barracks the next morning (after many, many pauses), everything grinds to a dead halt.

The card game? Frozen.

Dice game? Frozen.

Arm wrestling contest? Frozen.

They all stare at her.

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm alive. As you were," she says indifferently.

She has a full heartbeat before they rush her.

Kurgan bursts out of the barracks after a good half-hour of toasts and bawdy songs and tales of her bravery at the Battle of Bright Moon. (It has a name already.) Damn, they may very well kill her all over again with their enthusiasm at her being, you know, alive.

With no small effort, she lowers herself down at the base of a great flowering tree, back nestling up against the trunk; the bumps of her spine feel the bark. She frowns. That never happened before. She looks down at her hands; they're... more slender. They won't fit her gloves. She’s going to have more edges and ridges and angles for a while. At least until—

The sound of boots over the grass causes Kurgan to look up just in time to see Veili descending and engulfing her in a tight (and painful) hug. Veili kisses her brow and nose and cheeks and jaw and chin and she _smiles_.

"You're alive," Veili whispers, voice thick with tears. "You're alive, you're alive, you're alive, you're—"

And then Veili is crying, holding Kurgan close, burying her face in Kurgan’s stubbled scalp. Those ten days of dread and terror Veili had tamped down into mechanical numbness, not knowing if Kurgan would live or die—it all unfurls and unravels as she sobs.

For the first time in as long as she can remember, Kurgan lets herself be held, feeling Veili's tears fall upon her face.

  


* * *

  


Recovery does not come easily. Nothing comes easily during a war.

The gambeson, comfortable as it was to her, is now painful to wear—the cuffs, the collar, the way it sits on her shoulders. Her toes and feet cannot deal with the solidness of boots, either, so for the time being she wears three pairs of socks and avoids dewy grass in the mornings. (Moske offers to carry her. Kurgan will allow no such thing; Moske shrugs it off. His first words when he saw her alive and awake and standing in front of him were “Look who slept in!” Kurgan does appreciate, without question, that he treats her like… Kurgan, still. Not a sickly patient. Veili is good about it too, but she’s a little more… attentive. Not annoyingly so, that’s just how she is.)

Veili and Moske and the rest of the soldiers (and that knight Sethlen… Kurgan will have to deal with him) are manning the battle line in the Whispers. And in the meantime Kurgan is conducting the very important Rebellion business of… walking the courtyard, the gardens, the battlements, the arcades and flying bridges. But no, it’s not a greatest-hits patrol of the castle. It is… reconditioning. Physical therapy, to get technical about it. She can only get through five minutes of her sword forms in the yard before she’s sweating, gasping for air, muscles of her arms and back and abdomen aflame. She-Ra’s healing couldn’t solve everything for her, apparently. 

Kurgan stops in front of Micah’s study. She stands there, catching her breath. (Wearing full plate armor every day for years on end had helped her endurance and stamina, at least.) She runs a hand subconsciously through her mohawk ridge—except it isn’t there, and her fingers find stubble instead.

She doesn’t knock. She pushes the door open.

Sitting there with a cup of late morning tea and a stack of reports on the desk is Angella. The rays of sun streaming through the skylight give her a saintly aura… but she is a tired saint, then, for weariness can be written upon even her. She looks up sharply, eyes narrowed—Kurgan’s breath catches, fingers tighten upon the door handle. (She’s ten and in trouble again.) “I beg your pardon, of all times why must you—”

Kurgan looks at Angella. Angella looks at Kurgan. A few heartbeats pass. Recognition makes Angella’s eyes widen and eyebrows rise—but just as quickly her face scrunches up, concerned and despairing and intent all at once.

Angella is out of the chair and moving across the carpet but Kurgan has already met her in the middle of the study with strong strides. It’s performative, they both know—the way a sullen daughter with a broken arm writes her name perfectly, too perfectly, to prove to her mother that her limb is indeed fine. 

Who hugs who first is hard to say. But when Angella’s wings envelop Kurgan, she can imagine, briefly, the pain is no worse than scraped knees and bumped elbows and stung pride.

“Thank you,” Kurgan says quietly, “for visiting me.” _You didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have. You—_ Enough. Stop.

“You—oh, you—I’ve been worried sick! When Doctor Unther finally told me what had happened, I…” Somehow, Angella makes the act of weeping at ten in the morning look refined. The tears glide down her cheeks in symmetry. “She suggested… it would be more merciful to…” She can’t even say it. The Queen closes her eyes for a moment. “And even with Adora’s power, no one could predict—”

“I’m sorry I worried you.” Kurgan wishes her voice wasn’t still so rough and thorny. Moske thinks it’s badass, but to Kurgan it’s just a reminder.

Angella shakes her head. A strand of her hair brushes Kurgan’s scalp. “How is it that the daughter who always had an excuse to skip her etiquette lessons is the one who apologizes too much?”

_Because I have many things to apologize for. Because_ —stop. Kurgan chuckles. It sounds like gravel. “I had to cover for the both of us.” She can count on one hand the times she’s seen Glimmer sincerely apologize to their mother.

Resting her hands delicately upon Kurgan’s shoulders, Angella gives her a very imperious look. “Until you’ve fully recovered,” the Queen intones, “no fighting.”

Kurgan’s brow furrows. She knows that tone… she knows it far, far too well. “Are you… _grounding_ me?”

Angella smiles benignly. “Of course not. As your Queen and Supreme Commander of the Rebellion forces, I’m giving you an order.” Her tone is light. But there’s something beneath…

With a sigh, Kurgan lifts her chin. “No fighting,” she repeats dully. Angella laughs and kisses her forehead. Kurgan lets her. She tells herself she will heal. She has to. Her mind is unbroken. Her body will be the anvil the whole fucking Horde shatters itself against.

  


* * *

  


Kurgan finds them in the kitchens, as expected. Now technically Veili should be on patrol right now, but really, making sure She-Ra has enough calories and protein and micronutrients (especially micronutrients; Adora is still cagey about vegetables, which it seems were rare in Zone F-1) is more important than walking the battlements. They haven't had an assassination attempt in a while.

When Kurgan passes through the arch into the kitchens proper, the two turn to look at her; Veili smiles, but Adora blanches. (It’s been a bit over a week since Kurgan’s been among the living. But for some reason, between the fighting in the Whispers and training and war room meetings, Kurgan hasn’t run into Adora once. See each other at a distance, maybe, but then Adora has somewhere she needs to be. Glimmer and Bow would give Kurgan pained looks as the blonde hair poof vanished around a stained-glass corner.)

As she rises to leave, Veili brushes that spot on the back of Kurgan's neck—the spot least burned. Adora isn’t sure if Kurgan’s eyes go lidded for a moment or if it’s just the shadows and lighting in here. Kurgan takes Veili’s seat. 

They sit for a while. Kurgan eats the rest of Veili’s sandwich. The way the jaw moves in that gaunt face—Adora stares down at her sandwich, ashamed of her staring. What does Adora see, peering across the table? The ghost of an acquaintance. A symbol of what she believes to be failure.

(Has Kurgan ever _not_ been the symbol of someone's failure? No, stop that. Stop thinking like that.)

“I wanted to say thanks. For... healing me,” Kurgan finally says. It sounded better in her head.

“I had to,” Adora mumbles.

They both know that’s not true. They both remember what Kurgan said to Adora when her eye was still boiled in her skull. "This isn't your fault," Kurgan offers. She lifts her bandaged hands; Adora winces. "I chose this."

Adora isn’t looking at her—over her shoulder, instead. She looks so tired.

Kurgan rolls up the sleeve of her tunic—difficult with stiff fingers. The tattoo of Team Forlorn Hope shines in the lanternlight; the one part of her that went unravaged. "I wasn't conscripted or levied or stolen from a razed village. I have to fight. This is what I want."

"We could have diverted someone—Netossa or Spinnerella—"

"Could you have, Adora? Realistically?" Kurgan takes a sip of Veili's tea. (Veili always squeezes too much lemon in. Oh, well, that's Veili.) "The other princesses showed up at the last possible minute. The Horde’s tanks were _hitting the Moonstone directly._ You needed everyone. Victory almost got away from us. The south gate... expected casualties. They were acceptable losses." They can just build another city gate. Fuck the gate. It was just wood and steel and nostalgia, opened too slowly on obsolete hinges.

But Adora is staring down at the table, drawing and re-drawing battle maps in her head. "If Perfuma had been there, she could have reinforced the gate with her—"

"Stop it," Kurgan growls. 

"Why are you like this?" Adora hisses, fists bunching up in the tablecloth.

Now that takes Kurgan aback. She opens her mouth slightly, then closes it. "Why am I like... _what?_ "

"People died! _You_ almost died, and you're—you're here acting like it's a good thing!"

"I'm expendable."

"No, you're _not!_ "

Kurgan’s guts twist. Her voice won’t come. She can only take in Adora’s earnest yet guilty yet angry face, and she has to grind out the words. "…What the fuck did they teach you in the Horde? You learned about chain of command and attrition and triage, I know that much—you _had_ to, if you were going to be Force Captain."

Adora is up from the table and at the door of the kitchens, hands balled into fists. Her eyes are especially grey.

"Yeah," she says bitterly. "And I'm still learning."

And now Kurgan is alone at the table, watching the gentle sway of shadows from the lanterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurgan: ugh, can i be dead now, a tank blew up in my face
> 
> Life: heh heh heh
> 
> Kurgan: you fuckin serious
> 
> Well, she made it to season two. Go Kurgan!


	16. Death, the Mentor

Veili is already moving before the quadrobot collapses to the forest floor, its gears grinding like a death rattle. She dashes in, rips the two javelins from between the armor plates (ignoring the brief shock that jolts through them) and ducks under its crumbling legs. She’s already locked on to her next target, sprinting yet low to the ground as her boots move over stone and thorn and vine and moss and shallow stream without erring. The Whispering Woods knows her. Like any other dangerous, wild beast underneath its canopy, it has called upon her to do its work. 

Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, heart rate steady, breathing calm, hands sure. Her gambeson is streaked with motor oil and mud, stuck with leaves and twigs. She’s flow itself.

Make no mistake; Veili is a warrior, a soldier, a woman-at-arms. Maybe you got the impression that she’s not much for the fighting and the killing and the warfare, based on how this story has been going so far. Maybe you thought she was just this soft and friendly side-character. May as well correct that record now, before you get any other wrong ideas. 

See, Veili is one of those cases where she’s shockingly (and sometimes frighteningly) good at fighting and killing, but she absolutely _hates_ that she is. Kind of like the opposite of the incredible surgeon who’s afraid of blood and needles. It was an early point of friction between Kurgan and Veili, actually; Veili was so humble and unassuming about her innate talent, and Kurgan was secretly quite pissed that Veili was so damned good and quite afraid that Veili would very well outclass her. (Kurgan got over this soon enough, thankfully.) But the point still stands that if you’re in the training yard and sparring with Veili, and she’s wielding an arming sword in her right hand and a long parrying dagger in her left hand, you’d better be ready, because you’re about to lose your training weapons, your sense of competence, and your pride in short order.

Veili hears the distinct _snap_ of a mangonel’s arm, and a steel ball smashes into the quadrobot in front of her, caving it in. She leaps from one of the robot’s legs to the other and vaults over the metal carapace, not losing any momentum, coursing forward to the next enemy. 

(It's not the first time that Veili is thankfully she inherited human feet instead of cloven hooves—even if toes are a little weird sometimes.)

A horn sounds behind her, back at the battle line. Suddenly she is jarred from her flow, and she pivots on her heel, hauling her ass back the hundred paces to the line as arrows with armor-piercing heads—cover fire—begin to fall upon the remaining quadrobots.

She makes it to the line—a trench, sharpened wooden stakes, a collection of war wagons, a scattering of pavisses for covering archers and arbalists—and looks around hurriedly. She spots Rivir loading a ballista. 

“What’s happening?” she shouts up to him.

Rivir points further down the line; Veili wastes no time in taking off. She gets maybe another hundred paces down when she sees.

A small, smoldering crater. Soldiers being dragged away from it. Veili doesn’t need any explanation, she knows; a robot’s laser hit one of their spare incendiary charges. And from the worsening smell as she nears, more than a few were caught in the conflagration. 

Veili gives a start as a soldier drags themselves over the lip of the crater, tumbling down the side. With a grunt, they right themselves—and Veili can see the jagged piece of shrapnel, longer than a dagger, jutting from their thigh. The soldier wraps their fingers around it, grits their teeth—

“No!” Veili shouts, lunging forward, grabbing at their wrists. 

She expected cursing or cries of pain, but instead, the soldier looks up at her, baffled. “What’s the problem?” he asks, sounding… annoyed? No, wait… Veili knows that expression. The glassiness of those eyes.

He’s in shock.

“If you just yank it out, you’ll bleed out,” Veili says in a rush, still pushing his hands away. “It’s keeping the wound sealed.”

The soldier looks down at the shrapnel, then at Veili, then at the shrapnel again. “Can’t fight like this.”

Veili feels her eye twitch. “No, you can’t fight like this.”

“I can fight, I just—”

“I need a medic!” Veili yells out over his protests.

  


* * *

  


Today was not a good day.

They lost ten paces of the Whispering Woods. It could have gone much worse, but a loss is a loss. Bow claims that the battle data they’ve gathered that day was useful, but… everyone can detect that strained note in his voice. Glimmer is in a bad mood—whenever they lose ground, she’s in a bad mood. Adora, oddly enough, doesn’t seem too discouraged.

And Veili is so, so tired. Her rotation at the battle line is over, so she has maybe four hours of sleep before she needs to get back out there. It’s maybe—ten, eleven at night? The only thing keeping her awake right now is that slow yet steady drip of adrenaline, but Veili wouldn’t be surprised if she passed out on the trudge to the barracks. By some miracle, she makes it—and collapses gracelessly onto the carpet next to her bunk. 

She closes her eyes. Like everything else in Bright Moon, even the floors are comfortable. She could sleep like this, sword-belt and sheathed swords and boots and all. Veili feels that wave of slumber slowly pull her out to sea—

And then she’s being pulled up into a sitting position. She blinks a few times, making small noises of discontent. 

“Stop that,” a voice says. 

Veili’s vision snaps into clarity. Kneeling before her is Kurgan, gently working off her sword-belt, her stiff and bandaged hands struggling with her buckle. Veili moves to help, but Kurgan grunts and pushes away her hands. Belt dealt with, Kurgan eases Veili out of her gambeson, her boots, her gloves. This is nostalgic, Veili thinks floatily. Those first days when Kurgan was showing her how to wear her uniform and armor just right.

“You’re dehydrated,” Kurgan says. There’s accusation in her voice—that voice that’s not so raspy, not so raw anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Veili says.

Kurgan opens her mouth, but then closes it with a click. Instead she picks up Veili under her arms and sits her down on the bed (even when weak, Kurgan is strong). Veili dozes for about ten seconds before Kurgan pushes a cup of water under her nose. “Drink. You’ll lose more water in your sleep.” And with that, Kurgan begins her slow, awkward ascent to… the top bunk.

Veili blinks up at her. "What… are you doing?"

Kurgan doesn't look down. She very pointedly does not respond until she's fully climbed the ladder and carefully perched herself on the upper bed. "You're overextended. Take the bottom bunk."

" _I'm_ overextended? _Kurgan._ " Veili laughs quietly. Kurgan's brows lower. "Kurgan, come down from there."

"No. You can't lift your arms above your head at night. Even you can't throw javelins all day without stopping."

Veili shrugs. She hides the wince.

"I saw that."

Veili the recruit would have furiously blushed at being called out. Veili the corporal just fixes her gaze on Kurgan.

"I need the exercise," Kurgan says, her voice smaller. "There aren't... that many short ladders in the castle."

Thumbing at one of her horns, Veili sighs. "Can you... get down? If you had to, I mean."

There's that sudden inhale—the one that heralds Kurgan snapping out with harsh words—but she stops, exhales, unclamps her jaw. "Yes, Veili," she says, exasperated. Tired.

“Okay,” she says, letting the weight of weariness lie her down on the bed. “Okay,” she says, knowing when to stop.

  


* * *

  


Pain is an odd thing. People go on and on about it, poetically and philosophically, whether they’re angsty teenagers or profound playwrights. But pain is such a broad concept, and there are so many different kinds of pain. You’d wonder if anyone really relates to the pain of anyone else.

When you’re a child you see pain as bad, or as a mark of toughness when withstood. But then you get older and pain is just a companion who’s there to tell you when something’s wrong. And with Kurgan, well! You can imagine. She does not fear or hate pain; why should she? It’s her body telling her that something requires repair. Why hate the messenger?

But the problem is when the days stretch on and the pain turns into… itchiness. Now _that…_ that is something Kurgan doesn’t fucking appreciate. It wakes her up at night, it crawls beneath bandages and inside those stitched-up wounds. Pain can be poetic, but itchiness? Can you think of any story where the protagonist had to overcome great… itchiness?

  


* * *

  


It’s been a week. Instead of five minutes, Kurgan can last ten minutes of her sword forms. Instead of only walking, she has these little bursts of jogging. Few and far between, but they’re there. When she changes out her bandages, there is less blood and pus in the gauze. She sleeps eight hours instead of twelve—still more than her usual six hours a night, but still. Her strength and endurance are shot to hell and she’s in no shape for warfighting, but she can’t deny progress when she sees it.

What this means is that her little vacation of medical leave is over. She has to deal with the things befitting her station.

What this means is finally meeting this Sethlen character. According to Moske, this guy has been dying to meet Kurgan. She can’t imagine why that could be.

So it turns out they end up meeting by accident. Or coincidence. Or serendipity. Whatever you want to call it. 

It’s morning, overcast, drizzling slightly, the grass extra dewy. Kurgan is in the training yard, her fists wrapped two times over, striking the big sandbag. She can feel her heartbeat in her knuckles, her muscles are straining, but the lure of her old routine is too great. She knows by tonight she will regret this, be painfully sore, have to deal with Veili’s admonishments, but—it’s worth it. It’s—

“The most honorable Sergeant Kurgan,” a voice booms out behind her. 

Kurgan freezes. The amount of sheer _reverence_ in that tone makes her blood turn into permafrost. She slowly turns around.

Standing before her, without a doubt in her mind, is Sethlen.

What gives it away? Well, his attire, for one. He’s wearing the impeccable equivalent of Bright Moon military parade dress, high collar and epaulettes on his doublet and everything. The hilt of the greatsword on his back is artfully shaped and lovingly bejeweled. The way his shining hair is wound into a complex, beaded braid of a ponytail, smaller braids at the side of his head, the braiding of his beard—it speaks to an abundance of _time_ that no ordinary soldier can dream of.

He bows low with utmost formality.

Kurgan glances down at herself; her usual training setup of breeches, boots, and sport brassiere. What an impression, she thinks darkly. “Rise,” she says, not entirely kindly. She is still breathing hard from the exercise and tries to rein it in; she does not want to admit her weakness in front of a stranger. But there is weakness in hiding and strength in audacity, at times.

Sethlen straightens, smiling. “I am Sethlen of House Far Comet,” he intones. “And I have been waiting for the day I could meet the great Sergeant Kurgan with mine own eyes.”

“Great, you say,” she utters. 

“But of course. Your act of peerless valor in denying the southern city gate to the Horde vanguard—it will be written in history books. Scholars of warfare will write theses upon it. O! That I could rightly commend thee, but my words pale and are not nearly enough.”

Kurgan’s guts roil at that. “That so.”

“Without any doubt, Sergeant.”

Kurgan scans the practice yard. There—a bit father off—she can see the members of Sethlen’s retinue sparring. They brought their own practice weapons.

“Tell me, Sir Sethlen,” Kurgan says slowly, “why did you come to Bright Moon’s aid?” She turns her heavy gaze back to him. “The Rebellion is not popular with the noble houses.”

Sethlen’s cheerful demeanor falters, if only for a moment. “Ah… that you should ask. Well! It is simple. The scandal at the All-Princess Ball made it clear to any with eyes that the Horde is not to be negotiated with. To capture a princess, to ransom her for a queen—preposterous.”

Kurgan feels her hands curling into fists. “That was what convinced you?”

“If I may speak freely…” Sethlen steps closer. Even his boots are beautiful, the way they gleam under the slate sky. “It is, perhaps, not so simple after all. I was present at the palace when this scandal occurred. A score of like-minded warriors and I stormed the armory and made to sortie, but alas, the Horde cowards had retreated. Had I been more aware, and less naïve…” He heaves a sigh. “I cannot help but feel that I have done the Princess, the Queen, and all of Bright Moon a disservice with my poor showing. And you as well, Sergeant—call me a coward, for I was not sure I could face you, having failed to rescue your sister!”

“Sethlen,” Kurgan says. The knight brightens at the friendly familiarity the lack of ‘sir’ entails. “The Rebellion has been at war for _years._ Hundreds are dead, towns are razed, the Horde’s ranks swell with orphans and mercenaries. It was only _your personal shame_ that got you to take up arms?”

He looks at Kurgan blankly. “I…” 

“To me, Sethlen,” Kurgan grits out, “this reminds me of a young knight, low on the ladder of succession, looking to achieve honor and glory on the battlefield, ready to retire if there’s a hint of defeat.”

Sethlen’s eyes darken like new moons. He stands straighter. “That, o my dear Sergeant, is a very serious accusation.” His voice is low. He slightly shifts the weight of the sword upon his back.

They stand there, staring each other down. This doesn’t go unnoticed; the others in the training yard are watching this confrontation, even if they don’t know the words exchanged. Sethlen’s retinue looks particularly edgy. Out of the corner of her eye, Kurgan spots Moske behind a pillar, easing his greatsword from its scabbard.

“Am I wrong?” Kurgan asks coolly. 

Sethlen closes his eyes for a moment. “My parents… recall the First Princess Alliance. They lost three sons… and I, three brothers.” He opens his eyes. Still dark, yes, but… “The Far Comet estate lies well beyond Bright Moon and the Zone, far removed from possible conflict. They would remain neutral. And as one of their youngest, my arguments went unheard.” He turns to glance over his shoulder at his entourage; with a sharp nod, they return to their sparring. “Forgive them. Where was I? O, yes. I would bring news of Horde attacks, week by week, and they were unmoved. Soon I deigned to cast down my title and join the Rebellion as a knight-errant, yet…”

“Yet?” Kurgan presses.

“The other houses,” Sethlen says, and his shame becomes obvious. “Were I to disavow my lands and name and join Queen Angella, other noble houses would become alarmed, assume other young firebrands would do the same. They would consider it a hostile action, essentially. The Queen consolidating a number of petty nobles with claims to succession… there is historical precedent where this was used to seize power unilaterally.”

Ah, there it is. Politics. 

“But… what occurred at the Kingdom of Snows goes beyond any of that. I cannot be silent any longer. I called upon my closest friends, and here we stand, at your service.” He bows again. “I hope that you can forgive my lateness to act. If not, I accept that.”

Kurgan sighs. Standing out here listening to Sethlen blather on, still covered in sweat, she’s starting to get cold in this light rain. (Normally, she never got cold. That’s the cost of new skin, apparently.) “Rise, Sir Sethlen, rise. No good to have you permanently hunched from bowing so much.”

So he does, and he grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, 'Kurgan regrows her skin and is very itchy,' my favorite set of chapters!
> 
> Also... a thousand views already? Thank you. I mean it. Never expected this much attention.


	17. Death, the Negotiator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin... read these. That's an order, soldier.
> 
> [you could be the death of me (by CheesyBiscuit):](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786640/chapters/68023666) you like 007 and spies and paranoia and Cold War intrigue and Depeche Mode, you'll like this, and if you don't I don't know what to tell you.
> 
> [find a new place to be from (by sevensevan):](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313181/chapters/69373509) first I was like "ghosts and haunted mansions and early 20th century stuff, haha nah" but then I was like "I will perform unspeakable blood sacrifices for their happy ending, stop me if you can."
> 
> [a horse named cold air (by mootboot):](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24921691/chapters/60311065) "a modern setting about romance and longing and music, why would I ever care about--whoa fuck this is awesome, this new 'music' stuff might end up catching on." 
> 
> Huh, all these titles are all in lowercase... a sign of quality, maybe.

Any physician (licensed or not) can tell you that alcohol slows the healing process. Introductory stuff at the university, really. The basics of the trade you learn stitching up bar brawlers and unlucky pickpockets to meet the academy’s tuition if you don’t have a noble house to exalt your name or a sponsorship from an influential patron or just a lot of fucking gold burning a conductive, inert hole in your treasury vault. Alcohol thins the blood, too, making open wounds run even worse and refuse to close. Not to mention the stumbling and staggering opening up stitches and breaking open scabbed skin, repeated vomiting causing dehydration and electrolyte imbalance… you get the idea. 

But… stress also slows the healing process. No one can deny that. That’s also introductory stuff at the academy, stuff that even Yeltz knows from what his girlfriend patiently explains to his dumb, martial ass. (Her name is Matilda, by the way. Technically it’s Mahthildis on the birth certificate, but that’s an old spelling. Matilda is a mostly uncommon name, anyway; that’s why everyone in the barracks forgets it. Not uncommon enough to be novel, not common enough to easily remember. But Yeltz remembers her name, so that’s what counts, really. Nice woman. No one’s sure what she sees in Yeltz. It’s very likely that Yeltz doesn’t see what she sees in Yeltz, which may be a contributing factor as to why he’s uncharacteristically thoughtful in regards to her.) That was quite an aside; so, anyway. All that contradiction has to make one wonder; what if the lack of alcohol _causes_ stress in certain situations? What is the health-conscious patient to do, in that case?

Simple, really. Observe the expert, all you aspiring physicians and surgeons and vinetiers out there:

Kurgan pours herself a cup of mulled wine from her flask. The thick silver of the cup is cold… but then it grows warm and warmer with the wine, emerging from hibernation, returning to life to meet her. It’s such a comforting sensation. It makes her feel a slight buzz in her chest and under her skin already… without having had a drop. The human brain is a marvelous thing, huh?

After all, it’s been just over two weeks (counting her unconsciousness). So, come on: what’s a single, chaste and measured cup to celebrate her status of successfully being alive? They say a single glass of wine is good for you. How exactly that was determined Kurgan never bothered to find out. She has no interest in finding out, instead repeating that factoid as often as possible the moment her nose detects the medley of exotic spices in her beloved mulled wine.

And that is how we find Kurgan on the far battlement, watching the sunset cast the city below in fiery citrus hues, out of sight and out of hearing and out of mind and alone with her wine. Finally, by the old gods—finally. (What is that word for melancholic longing? Saudade? Hiraeth? Sehnsucht? Whatever. The point is: she longs.) Even in the course of days, regardless of her burnt and peeling appearance or mummification with bandages and gauze, people are _talking_ to her again. In those first days it was hard to find a soul that would meet her (now mismatched) eyes. 

There’s Moske and Veili, as always, but they worried too much and Kurgan tried to do everything she could so they wouldn’t worry and that was exhausting. At first, when Veili wasn’t on the battle line against those Horde robots at the Whispers, she would follow Kurgan like a shadow and be ready with bandages or water or an offer to carry her and it drove her fucking crazy—especially knowing that Veili was working overtime and not taking care of herself. 

(“I’m _awake._ Look at me. I’m not dying anymore, Veili,” Kurgan had snapped when Veili had sat her down on the bottom bunk and reached close to check her bandages and their cheeks brushed and Kurgan’s heart briefly stopped—in frustration and indignation, of course; what else? Veili pulled back, blinking, hands still open. “Look at me. I’m still the one who taught you everything you know. I can survive _Bright Moon._ ” Guilt roiled like molten metal through Kurgan the moment the words passed her teeth and Veili’s green eyes widened and her mouth briefly became an ‘o.’ She cast her eyes down and pressed her lips together, and she turned on her heel and made to go—but Kurgan reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it even though it hurt like hell and she felt the thin, delicate scabs in the lines of her palm break open with a sting.)

(“Veili…” Kurgan took a deep breath; even that hurt, as the inside of her lungs was still recovering from that scalding air. Veili stopped—thank the old gods she stopped—but she continued looking away, eyes moving, seeking out any destination but here. Was Kurgan going to make her bolt? The guilt froze fast and became ice in her veins. “I… you…” Kurgan swallowed. She looked around, self-conscious and feeling painfully foolish. She felt one of her most despised things: she felt like a child. “I…”)

(Veili turned and looked at her. That shut Kurgan up. There’s hurt there, and her face is scrunched up in the way when she’s mad and trying to hide it. “I…” Kurgan’s so tired. And she can see that Veili’s so tired—those shadowed circles beneath her eyes. Come on. Say it. “I… don’t know how,” she finally works out, her throat fighting her the whole time. Veili just kept studying her with those big eyes. Waiting. Kurgan could see herself reflected in them, dark and small and upside down; she scrubs a nervous hand through the friction of her scalp, her nails leaving angry red lines. She winces from embarrassment, not pain. “I… back then…whenever I was ill I would...” What the hell is she even trying to say? And why can’t she say it to—of all people—Veili? “I don’t know how,” Kurgan repeats, more slowly, buying herself time. “I don’t know… how to be weak. I mean—that’s not—you’re not—I’m sorry. You’ve always—I… I don’t—”)

(A shushing noise. Kurgan’s trembling ceased like it never was. She… doesn’t remember trembling. “Hey. It’s okay. I should be sorry,” Veili whispered as she wrapped up Kurgan gently in her arms. “You’ve gone through so much… given so much. I shouldn’t—I know, it’s greedy, I’m smothering you, and you must hate it. I know you’re strong, Kurgan. You’ve always been strong, for me—for Moske, for everyone.” She cracks a sad little smile at Kurgan. The kind she’d bring out early on, when Kurgan was training her, and Veili knew she had failed a drill and was brimming with dread. Kurgan had felt terrible for that anxious recruit with those short horns, even then, as an abrasive and vindictive trainer; she told Veili to never, ever apologize for a failed exercise, just to remember the mistake and do better next time. Veili had nodded vigorously at that, still too timid to raise her voice in the face of failure. Was that really five years ago? She’s so different. Kurgan likes to believe she’s part of the reason for that, but—)

(Oh, fuck. Damn it all, this isn’t going the right way. Kurgan has to salvage this, somehow, make this right. “No,” she said quietly into Veili’s shoulder, quilting of her gambeson soft against Kurgan's forehead. “Don’t—don’t apologize to me. Not to me. Not after—” She takes a breath. “You didn’t leave me alone in the infirmary,” Kurgan says in a rush. “You helped me... come back.” _You held my hand. Not like a handshake, but like… You didn’t have to, but you did. Why?_ “Don’t—don’t let me be like _that_ to you. Not after everything you’ve done for me. It’s not—” Like _that?_ Like what, then, like the _Kurgan_ she’s always been? She didn’t have time to complete the thought, because she decided, instead, to lift her arms and meet Veili’s eyes and let her remove the bandages, rolling them delicately off her flesh like bloody scrolls that reeked of her.)

That was quite the aside, huh? Well, anyway. Glimmer—of all of them, _Glimmer_ — took only a passing glance at Kurgan’s discolored face, leaned on her new staff and drawled, “Ooh, rough night, huh? You want to borrow some concealer? I’ve got a pretty kickass moisturizer, too. And, just some advice, I’d pencil on some eyebrows if you’ve got any job interviews.” And Kurgan fucking _smiled,_ which surprised Glimmer but surprised Kurgan more. But in time she became less of an ashen, smoke-spitting ghost, more a material thing of skin and flesh and bone, and in that skin and flesh and bone people recognized the Kurgan they knew. They saw the steady growth of stubble on her eyebrows, her scalp. They saw her regenerated eye was not so different from her old one (and, if anything, made some of her more stoic expressions slightly easier to decode). 

Adora avoids her outright, now. Fine by Kurgan. Fuck her superiority complex.

That’s enough dwelling for now. Kurgan lifts the cup to her mouth—

And tastes nothingness. 

Kurgan looks up. Towering above her is Moske, with her cup of mulled wine dangling from his demi-gauntleted fingers precariously. 

“Doctor’s orders?” he asks mildly. 

If you shot a rainbow through a kaleidoscope, that’d give you an idea of the emotional color wheel Kurgan’s face rotated through. It was all in the course of a few seconds, but it was enough. She could say many, many, many things. She instead settles on: “Choose your next action with discretion, Corporal.”

Only the smallest of flickers passed over the glow of his eyes. Then he grins, shrugs, and empties the cup over the side of the battlement. The smell of spices luxuriates in the air. Moske bends and picks up the flask, shakes it to sate his curiosity, and nods to himself as he tucks it under his arm. “Enjoy the sunset, Sarge.”

He saunters off without any further ado. 

Kurgan sits there. Kurgan seethes. The sun sets. It’s beautiful.

  


* * *

  


Kurgan has not dreamed in a long time. She doesn’t dream a lot to begin with, as you know. But now? She pushes her body to exhaustion every day in her pursuit to rebuild it, and the healing process itself is fatiguing. Try as she might, Kurgan can’t return to her usual (and very time-efficient) six hours of sleep—it drags to nine, much to her irritation. But they are dreamless, at least. 

Well, they _were_.

Because now, right now, Kurgan is lying in the grass of the Heartbreak Hills, morning sun warm upon her face as she watches the clouds drift by so far overhead. The breeze is just cool enough, rustling through the flowers and tall grass and few nearby trees—and over her stubbled scalp. She runs a hand over it—it’s growing back more quickly than she expected, really. Skin’s not as sensitive as it used to be. She’s wearing her breeches, but she’s got a short-sleeved gambeson on (the kind Moske prefers in summer… and his adoring fans enjoy, incidentally) instead of her default long-sleeved one. There are bandages wrapped around her arms, but they’re clean and don’t itch and they have a bit of an aesthetic edge to them that Kurgan is almost willing to admit she finds cool. Her trouser legs are rolled up to the knee (also bandaged), and her feet are bare; she’s got some more healing to go before her steel-shank, steel-toe leather boots don’t make her cramp up with a few steps, much less when covered with her sabatons. But most importantly of all she is encased in her cuirass; it is impeccably polished and unblemished and shines brilliant in the sun and she immerses herself in the feel of the steel close to her torso like another layer of immovable, godlike skin. This— _this_ is the armor that kept her together and alive, after all. All those patrols, all that training—she walked in full plate for years on end, to the glances and whispers and rolled eyes and shaking heads of the old castle guard, of the city watch—but it was all worth it. She hardened her body and mind and even the green flame of plasma could not burn down her wick.

She also has to admit—she’s getting used to this bizarre… hillside… place. (Wait, place? No—this _dream._ She means this dream because a dream isn’t a place.) At first it was unsettling, of course. But now it’s become… kind of second-nature. Were she to visit Heartbreak Hills again, Kurgan has no doubt that she could seek out this very same stretch of grass and herb and wildflower.

And how the dream goes is becoming pleasantly predictable too. (Kurgan loves routine, after all.) Because—well, look for yourself, there she is right on cue. Standing ten paces away, her hands clasped in front of her. But… no, this is different. The scout’s in her Horde base uniform, sure—the short sleeves, the fitted pants, the half-calf combat boots. And yet she’s not wielding that usual assured expression, that confidence she wears like jousting armor; she looks… tentative. She wrings her hands. Kurgan looks at her fingers. They’re small and slender and not what you would expect of a warrior, much less one of the Horde. But she was wearing gloves when it happened, right? Those basic unarmored scouting gloves, meant for dexterity over protection—she was, wasn’t she? When Kurgan drew her backup dagger, blade shining like a mirror, and—

Kurgan props herself up on her elbows and appraises her. “Nothing to say?” she calls out, cocking her head.

The scout gives a small start, eyes widening, as if not expecting to be addressed. “I…” What a timid voice! She clears her throat, sounds more like herself: “I am very interested in your affairs. You see that you are interesting, no?”

Kurgan’s brows rise. “Is that so.”

They say nothing for a moment and just eye each other warily. Well, sort of: Kurgan eyes the scout’s face, the subtlety of cheekbones, the slope of jawline, the bow of lips, the unscarred and smooth part of her throat, looking close for any kind of tell; meanwhile, the scout’s fixated on the bandages wound tight on Kurgan’s arms and legs, on the short, uneven stubble reappearing on her too-naked skull, on the bruised and peeling blotchiness of her hands, her feet, her damned face. The scout looks… what expression is that, even? Is she going to be sick? Has she never even seen a dead body, as a killer for the Horde? Kurgan’s brow lowers. This is pathetic. 

“I didn’t want you to die,” the scout murmurs, as if it were a confession, a secret between friends hidden from the rest of the world. “No… no, never so… gracelessly. I refused to let it happen, not in such a way. It wouldn’t have been virtuous, or honorable. For if—”

“You know what? Hold on. I don’t recall asking you,” Kurgan says sharply. “And I don’t recall you giving me a choice, because _you didn’t give me a choice._ ”

The scout’s brows knit together, the corners of her mouth turning down. Finally! There it is! There’s the Horde attitude Kurgan has come to know. 

“You don’t remember,” the scout says incredulously. 

Kurgan doesn’t say anything.

“When they put you in the med bay—” _Med bay?_ Something Kurgan read in a Horde manual or intercepted message, probably—“You were dying. Brain swelling, rapid tissue edema, it… you were leaving. I felt you leaving.” The scout lets her gaze rove over Kurgan’s breastplate, narrows her eyes at her reflection. “Then I heard you say… ‘Leave me.’ And I felt something—and you stayed. You decided to stay, even when… you could have left. You could have refused whatever that… abnormal _phenomenon_ was.”

A blue butterfly lands on Kurgan's shoulder. They both look at it. “I was unconscious.” Kurgan shrugs the unoccupied shoulder. It’s a lot easier to do when you aren’t wearing pauldrons. “I didn’t say anything. My tongue was probably burnt beyond speech, anyway. I had to grow most of it back.” She licks the back of her teeth, appreciating what had once gone unappreciated. 

The scout shakes her head. “I remember. It… harmed you to say it.” She sighs. “You’re always doing that. Harming yourself, again and again. Don’t you grow bored of it?”

Kurgan stares at her. The butterfly departs quietly. “If you want to rent a corner of my brain and lay out a bedroll, that’s one thing. Don’t fucking _lie to me_ about my own memories.”

“How dare you accuse me of—it _is_ the truth!” the scout bites out sharply, her accent coming through, softening the consonants in a way that makes Kurgan focus on the shape of her mouth. “You sensed someone you knew, and you told them to let you die. I haven’t any idea why you would even—and then—and then there was… some kind of energy transference, or wavelength shift? Thermal energy—infrared—and light, colors, all across the visible spectrum. And—” She waves both her hands, trying to illustrate the impossible in the breeze. “Your body, every organ, it stabilized, no? Tell me _how._ Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to… you would have…” She trails off, looking… relieved and anguished at the same time. 

“Yeah, looks like you skipped out on Strike Trooper orientation. That’s what’s called _magic,_ you ignorant, degenerate, disgusting Horde scum,” Kurgan informs her with a chuckle, quite amused. There’s no real heat loaded behind her words. “Did you like it? Did that dangerous, forbidden sorcery make your heart beat a little faster?”

The scout pales. “No, I…” She pauses, frowns to herself, and then slowly smiles in a way that unsettles Kurgan in how it overtakes her face with pearly enamel. The scout puts a pensive finger under her chin. “Well… now as you so mention it, I think I rather liked _that_ magic. It brought you back to me and me back to you, yes?”

“It shouldn’t have. And you shouldn’t have,” Kurgan utters lowly. “Ado— _she_ threw away someone else’s life so I could keep going a few years longer. And then you drag me back—”

“It would have been a waste of that dangerous, forbidden magic if I had let you die, no? And how hard you had fought through the pain. My heart breaks to imagine it.” The scout blinks, realizes where she is standing, and giggles a bit. Kurgan hates how she hears music in it.

She grinds her teeth. “Is this how it’s going to be? You’re trapped in my head, and I’m trapped being brought back by you? Where I can’t die because you’re afraid of what happens afterward? When each time less and less of me comes back to fill a corpse?”

“I brought all of you back,” the scout has steel in her voice as she walks past Kurgan down the hillside without a rearward glance. “I missed nothing. I could have finally known your name—but I abstained. Find me when you are reasonable.”

Kurgan wakes up sweating, her throat dry.

  


* * *

  


This is something Veili has wanted for a long, long time. Others would not call a year a long time; they were not counting the minutes and hours and days the way Veili has been. The way she began counting when Glimmer and Bow and Adora—new, wide-eyed, overwhelmed Adora… determined, steadfast, ready Adora—returned from the site of the Horde assault. Spoke of tanks and artillery and mortars and howitzers, of that sickly green plasma cutting a swath through tree and stone alike, of houses on the forest floor and houses up in the canopy consumed by ionic fire alike, the villagers deciding between burning to death or falling to death.

Moske understands. He understood the day it happened and he understands even now. He lost his village, his people, everything he ever knew. He did not have a family to lose—he was raised by everyone, in a way. (It takes a village to raise a child, after all. That saying exists for a reason, not just as a way to antagonize new parents.) He became the vessel of their stories, their jokes, their dreams. He would do great things, they had said (they had promised him, as though it were prophesized, as if it had already come to pass) as he diligently hammered at the anvil with precision beyond his years, unflinching when spark or ember or red-hot metal dared touch his dark bronze skin. Taller than most men at age sixteen and definitely broader in shoulder, already sporting a golden beard long enough to need to comb out the tangles with more than his lazy fingers or the tugging hands of his (many) lecturing grandmothers. He was the golden child with golden eyes; how far he would go.

Then the village was razed to the ground and everyone was brutally murdered. Standard operating Horde procedure: the young ones were stolen away to be conditioned into child soldiers; the compliant adults became slaves for hard manual labor; any who did not submit were summarily hacked to pieces with arcblades or had their atoms ripped apart by plasma handcannons. (Watching only part of someone’s body be atomized is a very memorable experience… if unpleasant. The level of anatomical understanding is a bit much for a sixteen year old boy, regardless of how tough he would like to be.)

The closer they ride to Thaymor, the harder Veili’s heart hammers.

They dismount three hundred paces from the town—they’ll approach the rest of the way on foot under cover of darkness. 

It’s time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Normally I would save music for the end of each season... but nah.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35Ol1K-Jj8k) Our favorite Horde scout's not having a great time. Sorry about that, trooper.
> 
> So the fourth-longest chapter is just an agonized freakout from the stress of healing. That's cool I guess. There was going to be a battle, but that's next chapter now, I additionally guess. So this chapter is very rough around the edges, might come back to it later, but I didn't want to leave you all hanging for too long.
> 
> Also...
> 
> Kurgan: im 22 years old and been swinging a sword since age 5 and i can kill a grown man in 30 different ways and feel nothing
> 
> Kurgan: im itchy and peely and therefore i will lash out at the very few people who care about me (one of which is a mental figment/ghost of someone i killed, wtf) and pursue my usual unhealthy coping mechanisms in a way that is extra unhealthy
> 
> Kurgan: wtf why am i sad
> 
> Kurgan: you ever want to hug a friend, like, a lot, but in a different way somehow, its hard to explain, w/e nvm
> 
> Kurgan: adora sux btw
> 
> Scout: sigh


	18. Death, the Navigator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get going, I just want to say I never expected to get this much support and encouragement for what was basically a writing exercise for me.
> 
> So, thank you. Seriously. All your comments makes this all especially worth it, and really see the value in what I'm doing.

It’s a new moon. That’s no coincidence; Netossa demanded they move under the cover of darkness.

When Veili casts her eyes around, she sees those small shifts of movement, the subtle glints of buckles or armor or sword-hilts… but not much else. Her night vision has always been better than that of her human peers (one of the few benefits of her caprine lineage); how those delicate round-pupiled eyes can manage a mission in this light is beyond her. But from the way Moske’s golden irises flicker faintly under the starlight like a monster out of a childhood fable, well—even humans still have their little surprises, princess or not.

(“You’re sure about this?”)

(Kurgan’s gaze on Veili is unwavering and searching. Veili can’t help but glance from one of Kurgan’s eyes to the other—the right eye so familiar, the left so… nostalgic, though she had never seen it or been seen by it before this week. Had Veili known Kurgan when she was a child, before the calluses and scars and perpetual frown, before time had hammered her into a shape so unbending and sharp, would Veili have looked into eyes that dark and intense?)

(Veili is a warrior, not a recruit; a woman, not a girl. She doesn’t look away from that asymmetrical gaze. “I have to do this,” Veili whispers. “For my family, for my people, and…” She swallows.)

(“For you,” Kurgan presses, leaning just slightly forward. “And for you.” It’s a question and encouragement all at once.)

(At that, finally, Veili cuts her eyes downcast. “…For me.”)

The village of Thaymor is surrounded by dense, old-growth forest, slightly touched by the strange and ancient magic of the Whispering Woods—that much is unchanged. It makes their approach easy, but they all move slow nonetheless; hands gripping hilts and quivers, not a spare sound allowed to escape them. Spinnerella wove a bubble of dense air around the forward squad, dampening their sound even further. Veili glances at the princess; she was a veteran of the First Princess Alliance, but… there was a hint of sadness in the resolve of her expression. (Some people are warriors because they have to be, she thinks.)

It must be their imagination. But they can almost feel the forest guiding them.

  


* * *

  


Veili slips off her boots, tucks her socks into them, and hands them off to Knutt with an appreciative nod. (He, much like her, can see in this dim light—a bit better, actually, with those eyeballs gifted from a lupine ancestor; shine a bright light in his eyes and light will shine back, not that he’ll enjoy it. She hopes he cannot see the apprehension and excitement clashing in her face. If he does, well, he doesn’t mention it. Good guy, that Knutt.)

(Knutt hands them off to Moske, who fumbles them a bit in the dark with a bit-down curse. Veili would giggle at it, if… you know.)

See, for Veili, this whole thing—it’s all a grim trip down memory lane. Games of hide-and-seek, games of sneaky tag, scavenger hunts, hiding from annoying younger siblings, hiding from annoying overbearing parents. This grass, this dirt, these stones, this clover, this moss, these trees and ferns and vines—Veili knows it all better than her own skin. This is almost unfair, for the Horde garrison. You can’t out-roughhouse someone in their own backyard, that’s one of the basic tenets of warfare.

She gradually emerges from the treeline, low to the ground, soundless among the leaves. She crawls flat on her belly—just like when she was watching caterpillars or beetles make their way through the grass labyrinth beneath her. Only fifty paces of worming her way forward and she’s at the palisade—well, _palisade_ is maybe the wrong word. It’s a line of oversized caltrops (three feet high, three feet wide) wrapped in looping, bristling coils of barbed wire. It isn’t humming and crackling with green sparks—the telltale sign of being electrified with enough power to burn you to the bone and stop your heart—so it looks like this location wasn’t even considered high-value enough to invest the standard defenses into. (Somehow, that makes Veili’s chest clench with... is this anger? She’ll think about it later.)

But giant alloy spikes and barbed wire aren’t much of a deterrent to a childhood of poisonous thorns and hooked brambles and sharp branches and small creatures in the undergrowth that bite down hard and without mercy. She slips through the metal, her gambeson barely snagging. Now in the occupied village itself, she can mark out the silhouettes of the bombed-out husks of buildings, the scorched bark and scoured boughs of the old trees that had sheltered them for generations, the wide roads that had been lined with thriving wildflowers of the season now dead and trampled. This could be just any other forest village. She could just pretend… but no. She can’t. Those who died here—fighting, protecting their families, their children—she owes them that much.

Veili silently draws her parrying dagger into her left hand. She crouches behind a cold pile of rubble that was once someone’s home, and waits. From deeper into the village, shadows cast by the sickly greenish light of the Horde battery lanterns move back and forth. She watches them, unblinking. 

In time, she can pick out movement from beyond the palisade—more Bright Moon scouts, creeping forward into the village. (The ones who can see, specifically. Knutt is among them. There’s Rivir, too, whose draconid parentage means he can ‘see’ _heat_ in a way that Veili doesn’t really get. He was really good at hide-and-seek growing up, as you can imagine.) She waits and watches, holding her breath, as the rest wriggle their way in—some more gracefully than her, others… not as much.

Enough of them are in position. They only have one shot at this. 

A Horde trooper has splintered off from the rest. For a piss? For a smoke? Doesn’t matter. Won’t matter at all soon enough. She walks in perfect sync with them, her footfalls covered by their bootfalls. If they had bothered to look down, maybe they would’ve seen the faintest outline of a shadow behind them, but— 

Veili clamps her hand over the trooper’s mouth and drives the dagger clean through into the side of their neck, deep enough to scrape the backbone—then another thrust, lower, between the collarbone—then another, lower, angled up under the chest armor into the armpit, into the ribcage. Three open bleeds; the trooper remains standing for three seconds before the lowered blood pressure robs their brain of oxygen and they crumple. Veili lowers the dead weight quietly to the ground, wiping her gloved hands on the cool grass. That’s one.

She squints into the darkness, looks up at the roofs of the buildings that are still intact. She still doesn’t see any sentries… are they even trying to defend this position? Do they even _care?_

A distant scream rises up from halfway across the village. The sound of plasma handcannons tearing the night air, arcblades springing to life. Then, soon after that, the piercing wail of a Horde klaxon. Floodlights snap on throughout the outpost, dazzling her for a moment. Taking a deep breath, Veili draws her arming sword into her right hand as she watches the rest of the Bright Moon soldiers course forward from the treeline, a silent wave of icy steel and fiery eyes—and there’s Moske, clearing the palisade with a single bound as he draws his greatsword, rushing to her side with a mirthless smile.

These old trees will drink their fill of blood, tonight. These is no better gift Veili can give them.

  


* * *

  


Juliet gives Veili the day off; she knew very well about Veili’s intimate history with Thaymor. (Everyone did, really. Kind of hard to avoid the subject of ‘where you from’ for five years, but no one brought it up, thankfully. Not even in the “I’m sorry for your loss” kind of way. Enough people in the Bright Moon guard know what loss is like, and know when not to press.) The battle line in the Whispering Woods was covered by Sethlen’s retinue and the princesses, anyways, so Veili could sit this one out until nightfall, at the very least.

Veili thought she’d maybe catch up on some reading, or do a little light exercising with Kurgan (light, to prevent Kurgan from getting competitive or to try and impress Veili), possibly get a much-needed nap somewhere in there. But… it didn’t turn out that way. Veili just… lay in bed all day, thinking. Not depressed or shell-shocked or anything. Just… thinking. (More than she already does, anyway. Which is a lot, because this is Veili we’re talking about here.) She watches the golds and oranges and reds of twilight scatter artfully through the stained glass of the barracks and realizes that she’s been staring at the same wall for hours. It feels hard to move her limbs. 

Footsteps, then; not the tread of standard-issue boots, but that gait is recognizable all the same… Kurgan, without a doubt. Veili bites her lip. She feels the mattress sink next to her. 

Veili… really, really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not tonight. Possibly… not ever. 

She feels a strong hand rest upon her back, firm between her shoulderblades, rubbing slow, gentle circles. 

It’s then that Veili realizes she’s… so, so tired. When did she get this tired? When did—

She sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual. But that little throwaway line in S2E1 about Thaymor being retaken? Well...
> 
> And don't you forget, Veili may not like fighting and killing, but damn if she isn't good at it.


End file.
